A    DAUGHTER    OF 
VENICE 


A    DAUGHTER    OF 

VENICE.  BY  JOHN 
SEYMOUR  WOOD.  IL 
LUSTRATED  BY  FRANCIS 
THAYER 


NEW   YORK 
CASSELL    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 

FOURTH  AVENUE 


Stack 
Annex 


COPYRIGHT,  1892,  BY 
T.    S.    WOOD. 


Press  of  J.  J.  Linle  &  Co., 
Astor  P'ace,  New  York. 


StacK 
Annex 


"  Love,  in  this  summer  night,  do  you  recall 

Midnight,  and  Venice,  and  those  skies  of  June 

Thick-sown  with  stars,  when  from  the  still  lagoon 

We  glided  noiseless  through  the  dim  canal? 

A  sense  of  some  belated  festival 

Hung  round  us,  and  our  own  hearts  beat  in  tune 

With  passionate  memories  that  the  young  moon 
Lit  up  on  dome  and  tower  and  palace  wall. 

We  dreamed  what  ghosts  of  vanished  loves  made  part 
Of  that  ssveet  light  and  trembling,  amorous  air; 
I  felt — in  those  rich  beams  that  kissed  your  hair, 
Those  breezes  warm  with  by-gone  lovers'  sighs — 
All  the  dead  beauty  of  Venice  in  your  eyes, 
<\11  the  old  loves  of  Venice  in   my  heart." 

—  JOHN  HAY,  in  Harper's  Monthly. 


DAUGHTER 


OF 

VENICE. 


VENICE,  Nov.  $th. 

RESUME  my  diary 
—  neglected  for  so 
many  months — for 
the  reason,  suffi 
ciently  satisfactory 
to  myself,  that  here, 

in  Venice,  those  who  come  after  me,  and 
who  may  see  fit  to  peruse  it,  will  find  writ 
ten  less  of  myself  and  more  of  what  I 
note  in  this  strange,  sad  old  city.  I  intend 
to  make  a  study  of  the  lesser  known  art 
ists  of  the  school  of  Paul  Veronese  and  of 
Paris  Bordone  ;  I  intend  to  spend  some 
days  in  the  Old  Library  ;  I  have  already 
printed  in  the  Review  some  notes  on  Gol- 


8  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

doni,  and  on  Carlo  Gozzi  :  I  intend  thus 
to  make  my  stay  here  of  some  small  value 
to  literature  and  art.  I  shall  leave  some 
notes  which  may  be  useful  to  Alfred,  my 
nephew,  who  betrays  a  desire  to  make  lit 
erature  his  profession  and  shows  unmis 
takable  signs  of  authorship,  and  whose  in 
teresting  monograph  on  Mediaeval  Florence 
I  received  in  London,  forwarded  by  ex 
press  from  Boston.  I  shall  furnish  him 
with  some  valuable  notes  also,  on  Roman- 
in,  Capelletti,  Quadre,  and  Daru. 

As  for  this  strange,  splendid  city  of 
Venice,  to  my  shame  I  now  recall  that 
on  my  first  visit  I  thought  most  of  the  old 
palazzi  required  repairs ;  that  the  odors 
arising  from  some  of  the  narrow  canals,  and 
the  sunless  calle,  were  very  disagreeable. 

In  those  happy  days  of  my  "  Wander- 
jahre,"  I  ran  down  from  Vienna  for  a  week 
in  Venice,  prepared  to  exhaust  its  treasures 
in  a  few  days  ;  to  consider  St,  Mark's  a 
dingy  bit  of  orientalism  ;  to  fully  believe 
that  the  "  unapproachable  Piazzetta  "  was 
literally  so,  and  badly  arranged  ;  to  smile 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


at  the  Campanile — a  tall  red  brick  factory 
chimney  out  of  whose  pinnacle  I  regretted 
the  absence  of  the  busy  smoke  of  produc 
tion.  I  remember  I  had  no  sympathy  then 
for  the  graceful  and  beautiful  disintegra 
tion  which  I  saw  "at  either  hand."  It  had 
no  story  to  tell  me,  and  my  Byronic  enthu 
siasm  for  "  the  pleasant  place  of  all  fes 
tivity  "  began — and  ended,  too — some  years 
later.  Sometimes,  looking  backward,  I 
have  attributed  this  insensibility  to  igno 
rance  ;  but  I  am  the  more  convinced  after 
revisiting  "the  Masque  of  (Mediaeval) 
Italy,"  that  it  was  purely  because  I  was  at 
the  time  very  much  of  an  American,  and  a 
materialistic  young  American  at  that.  My 
face  was  turned  solely  to  the  future,  to 
commercial  success.  But  as  the  years 
went  on,  and  I  came  to  the  time  of  "the 
thoughtful  middle  age,"  and  the  generous 
hopefulness  for  all  things  American  faded  a 
little  ;  as,  indeed,  the  tone  of  those  of  my 
friends  in  America,  about  me,  underwent  a 
change  into  the  minor  key  of  criticism,  and 
the  "  liberties"  granted  by  our  post-revolu 
tionary  forefathers  became,  under  scrutiny, 


io  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

difficult  to  define  in  the  concrete  ;  as,  in 
deed,  the  industrial  and  commercial  spirit 
grew  and  thrived,  to  the  suppression  of 
much  that  I  had  learned  already  to  be 
necessary  to  the  best  "  life,"  and  I  saw 
clearly  that  the  real  liberties  were  not  so 
much  to  be  regulated  by  government  as  by 
opinion  ;  that  success  in  purely  physical 
development  did  not  wholly  make  a  nation  ; 
when,  indeed,  I  tired  of  the  continuous  rush 
and  roar  of  our  coarser,  noisier,  material 
civilization, — I  turned  to  Venice  again — • 
this  time  as  a  lover.  Its  hopelessness 
fascinated  me.  The  tragedy  of  its  fine 
silent  despair  stirred  me.  I  recalled  that, 
after  all,  in  the  days  of  its  glory  it  might 
not  have  received  my  admiration.  It  was 
a  city  of  commerce  and  industry  like  our 
own  in  America  ;  it  was  active,  energetic, 
pushing ;  it  fought  wars  in  order  to  sell 
its  cloths  and  jewelry  ;  it  rifled  cities  to 
embellish  its  own  "  home  market,"  and 
"  pirated  "  gold  and  silver  from  the  great 
mosques  of  Constantinople  to  adorn  its 
gorgeous  Church  of  St.  Mark.  I  was  not 
aware  but  that  the  "  blind  old  Dandolo," 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  u 

or  Mocenigo,  or  the  Council  of  Ten,  would 
have  been  found  exasperatingly  like  some 
of  our  pushing,  energetic  countrymen.  I 
admitted  to  myself,  that  I  belonged  to  that 
growing  class  of  Americans — the  unsat 
isfied.  It  is  either  that  the  "  liberties"  of 
my  oratorical  forefathers  were,  in  their 
practical  details,  less  attractive,  or,  in  the 
course  of  years,  have  suffered  an  unholy 
change.  I  believe  to-day,  that  Venice 
consoles  very  delicately  and  sympathet 
ically  those  Americans  who  have  not 
especially  the  "  joy  of  patriotism."  All  is 
over,  here.  The  city  is  now  passionless. 
It  gives  one,  more  than  nature,  deep  calm, 
sincere  repose.  I  am  not  required  to  have 
any  opinions — to  take  sides.  So  for  three 
days  I  have  sat  about  idly,  or  swung  in  the 
tender,  cradle-like  movement  of  a  gondola. 
It  seems  sometimes  as  though  I  were  tast 
ing  eternity  here,  among  these  environ 
ments  of  age.  That,  in  fact,  there  is,  here, 
neither  youth  nor  age,  nor  time,  nor  aught 
but  kindly  Death. 

As  I  sit  in  the  windows  of  my  hotel  and 
glance    down,    this    November    afternoon, 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


upon  a  flight  of  sea  gulls  which  sweep 
along  the  Canalazzo  on  flashing  wings,  I 
confess  that  New  York — five  hundred 
years  hence — may,  as  well  as  Venice,  have 
the  happy  destiny  to  become  a  most  charm 
ing  city.  The  taint  of  money  getting  has 
finally  disappeared  in  the  grey  of  these 
old  palace  walls.  It  is  possible  that  the 
taint  may  depart  from  the  brown  stone ; 
but  will  any  intelligent  geologist  tell  us 
whether  the  brown  stone  will  retain  its  co- 
hesiveness  after  the  age  of  business  has 
passed  away  ?  Or  is  it  a  temporary  meally 
sandstone  which  is  destined  to  melt  into 
the  Bay  and  give  place  to  something  finer 
in  the  way  of  architecture  while  we  are 
still  masters? 

November  is  hardly  the  month  to  see 
Venice  ;  it  rains  frequently.  Now  and 
then,  however,  there  are  gorgeous,  high- 
colored  days  when  the  SUIT  flashes  in  daz 
zling  brilliancy  across  the  glittering  facade 
of  the  Procuratie.  Such  an  afternoon  was 
yesterday's.  The  sun  makes  the  season  in 
this  leafless  city  ;  it  bathes  the  golden 
dome  of  St.  Mark's  in  radiant  summer 


A  Daughter  of   Venice.  13 


light.  To-day  there  is  a  dead  sombre  pall 
of  winter  grey  over  all.  Across  the  Grand 
Canal  yonder,  rise  the  stained  marble  walls 
of  the  Palazzo  Mocenigo,  from  the  open 
casement  of  which  Lord  Byron's  "  Baker- 
ess  "  leaped  laughing,  one  moonlit  night 
(my  guide  book  tells  me),  to  her  death.  In 
a  palace  a  little  way  below,  the  girlhood  of 
Catharine  Cornaro,  Queen  of  Cyprus,  a 
fascinating  figure  of  the  i5th  century, 
was  passed.  I  close  my  eyes,  and  the 
magnificent  (but  insincere)  pageant  which 
greeted  that  beautiful  woman's  return  to 
Venice — the  music,  the  parade  of  the 
Bucentaur,  the  rich  color  of  the  costumes, 
the  march  of  the  heralds,  the  solemnity  of 
the  mock  reception — glows  before  me.  I 
am  rudely  awakened  by  the  sound  of 
laughter  and  voices  below  me.  I  look 
down  and  see  a  party  of  my  countrymen 
and  women  wafted  past  upon  the  puffing 
vaporetto,  or  canal  omnibus.  There  is 
something  in  their  preference  for  the  noisy 
little  steamer  which  angers  me.  A  tall 
gentleman  in  solemn  black,  and  "  threaded 
gloves  of  lisle,"  points,  guide  book  in 


14  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

hand,  as  it  were  rebukingly,  at  Byron's 
palace.  Permit  me  here  to  record  my  dis 
approbation  of  the  use  of  the  index  um 
brella  in  the  hands  of  my  countrymen. 
Twenty  times  to-day  have  I  observed  it 
raised  and  pointed  with  a  moral  signifi 
cance  toward  the  Palazzo  Mocenigo.  It 
assists  more  than  the  flaming  advertise 
ments  of  the  curiosity  shops  in  making  of 
Venice  an  exhibition,  a  something  to  b^ 
seen,  not  felt.  I  have  a  presentiment  thai 
the  passengers  upon  the  steamer  quite  re 
gard  it  so  ;  they  seem  to  look  upon  the 
abundance  of  water  around  them  with  the 
eyes  of  persons  accustomed  to  a  sudden 
rise  of  their  native  rivers — with  the  eyes  of 
connoisseurs  in  floods.  At  least,  it  would 
appear  that  they  have  no  regard  for  the 
depth  of  color  in  the  dark,  green-blue 
water,  or  in  the  pink  stuccoed  wall  of  the 
stately  pile  yonder,  or  in  the  vast  grey  of 
the  sky  above,  or  in  the  rich  red  drapery  of 

the  gondola  of  the  Princess  B ,  which 

sweeps  by  them  almost  unnoticed.  Every 
thing  to  my  countrymen  must  be  distinctly 
of  use,  and  it  appears  to  them  that  the 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


uses  of  Venice  are  past,  and  so  unimpor 
tant.  Yet  it  would  seem  that  they  are  but 
partly  right.  At  the  conversazione  of 
Madame  Constance  last  night,  I  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  number  of  the  Venetian 
nobili,  who  had  the  boldness  of  faith  sol 
emnly  to  observe  that  the  true  greatness  of 
the  "  Planter  of  the  Lion  "  dated  from  the 
epoch  of  "  United  Italy,"  and  that  her 
greatest  glory  was  "  to  arrive."  To  look 
upon  Venice  as  in  her  infancy,  occurred  to 
me  then  to  be  not  only  distinctly  unique, 
but  to  be  entirely  an  American — a  western 
— audacity. 

But  the  Americans  !  It  is  not  the  place 
to  come  to  in  order  to  avoid  them.  There 
are  several  charming  hospitable  Bostonians 
housed  along  the  Canalazzo.  There  are 
Philadelphians  at  the  hotels.  At  the 
Museo  Civico  I  met  a  party  of  Kentuck- 
ians.  At  the  Ca'  d'Oro  they  crowd  upon 
you.  The  Palazzo  Dario  is  full  of  my 
countrymen  and  women.  It  is  New  York, 
they  tell  me,  which  is  still  a  foreign  city — 
the  European  cities  are  rapidly  becoming 
Americanized  ! 


November  ^th. 

PICK  up  from  my  table 
one  of  Mr.  Ruskin's 
more  recent  pamphlets 
in  which  he  bitterly  de 
nounces  the  repairers 
of  a  portion  of  the 
magnificent  vestibule 
of  St.  Mark's.  To  be 
in  Venice  is  to  read  the  author  of  "  The 
Stones,"  to  smile  at  his  brilliant  strenuous- 
ness — his  earnestness.  But  when  I  find 
myself  suddenly  laughing  it  is  not  because 
of  Mr.  Ruskin's  strenuousness.  Across  the 
narrow  calle  rises,  opposite  my  window,  the 
Palazzo  Regiani,  an  enormous  granite  pile 
of  the  Renaissance.  It  has  for  me  an  ab 
surdly  familiar  aspect  owing  to  its  resem 
blance  to  a  large  business  and  banking 
building  in  lower  Broadway.  I  happen  to 
glance  down  into  one  of  the  great  fenetres. 
I  see  an  expanse  of  gorgeous,  if  faded, 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  17 

chambers,  glittering  chandeliers  of  crystal 
glass — for  the  heavy  curtains  are  to-day 
well  drawn  back — and  an  array  of  dingy 
sculptures,  above  which  hang  dim  pic 
tures  in  heavy  gilded  frames.  A  young 
girl,  holding  the  long  train  of  her  silken 
skirt  in  her  hand,  is  backing  toward  the 
window  step  by  step,  along  the  polished 
marble  floor.  She  is  followed  by  a  tiny 
King  Charles  spaniel,  erect  upon  two  legs, 
and  holding  upon  his  high-bred,  slender 
nose  a  bit  of  confetti.  The  forlorn  aspect 
of  the  poor  little  beast  makes  me  laugh. 
His  eyes  are  rolled  up  to  his  mistress  in  a 
most  beseeching  way.  His  queer  little  hop 
and  sad  demeanor  at  last  seem  to  awaken 
the  pity  of  the  girl.  She  suddenly  falls 
on  her  knees,  clasps  the  little  dog  in  her 
arms,  and  covers  him  with  kisses.  It  is  a 
pretty  abandon,  and  she  falls  prone  on  the 
marble  floor  holding  the  dog  above  her 
at  arms'  length,  giving  me  the  innocent 
exhibition  of  a  very  charming  girlish  fig 
ure.  I  cannot  see  her  face,  as  her  hair — it 
is  the  old  Titianesque  red — has  fallen  in 
such  heavy  showers  over  her  shoulders. 


1 8  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


She  sits  up  on  the  floor,  and  I  notice  she 
has  the  schoolgirl  shake  of  the  head — the 
throw  of  the  hair  back,  like  a  mane  ;  in 
every  quick  motion  there  is  intense  life — 
as  it  appears  in  the  way  she  rises — an 
almost  feverish  animation.  I  approach  the 
window  furtively  ;  this  bit  of  life  in  the 
great  dead  palazzo  arrests  my  attention, — 
fascinates  me.  Instantly  the  entire  fa£ade 
of  stained  granite  undergoes  a  change  ;  it 
brightens,  it  glows  with  a  reason  for  being  ; 
it  is  the  home  of  a  warm  human  spirit. 

Yet  I  do  not  quite  see  the  girl's  face  ; 
catching  the  little  dog  in  her  arms,  she 
walks  quickly  away  down  the  long  corridor 
with  a  certain  stately  elegance  of  carriage  in 
her  retreat.  She  allows  her  long  white  train 
to  fall,  and  passes  window  after  window  with 
a  flash  of  lessening  radiance.  Her  riant 
romping  figure,  as  she  walks  down  the  long 
vista,  now  changes  into  one  of  statuesque 
dignity.  I  infer  that  others  have  entered 
the  salon  ;  that  she  is  not  alone.  I  am 
right.  As  she  disappears  through  a  gilded 
doorway,  two  gentlemen  enter  the  hall 
under  a  narrow  silken  hanging  in  a  wide 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  19 


arch.  One  of  them  bows  quite  low  after 
the  retreating  figure  of  the  girl.  For  a 
moment,  I  confess,  I  am  in  hope  that  she 
will  return.  The  old  palace  seems,  without 
her,  almost  too  stately,  too  gloomy.  The 
dark  stains  below  the  lintels,  the  green 
moss  at  the  plinth  of  two  Corinthian 
columns,  give  it  additional  solemnity.  Odd 
that  this  one  fair  young  girl  should  be 
able  to  change,  in  an  instant,  for  me  the 
vast,  magnificent  pile.  I  pry  into  my  heart 
a  little,  and  Ruskin  lies  unread.  Could  a 
fair  young  creature  like  that  ever  bring 
sunshine  into  my  weary  life  ?  Was  it  me, 
or  the  old  palace,  she  changed  so  suddenly? 


November  $>th. 

AM  sitting  at  a 
little  table  at 
Florian's,  idly 
contemp  lat  i  ng 
the  throngs  of 
fores  fieri,  who, 
like  birds  of  pas 
sage,  are  on  their 

way  South,  and  who  pause  in  their  flight  at 
Venice.  The  day  is  again  clear,  the  sky 
deeply  blue.  The  Piazza  is  very  gay;  there 
are  many  charming  English  girls  with  their 
fresh  complexions.  There  are  very  many 
smart  young  dandies,  too.  There  is  the 
solitary  young  lady  from — Newburyport,  is 
it  ? — going  about  unchaperoned  save  by 
the  sternness  of  her  spectacles.  These 
pale-faced,  black-mustachioed,  pointed- 
bearded  young  Venetian  dandies,  in  outre 
silk  hats  and  green  kid  gloves  and  canes 
like  the  Inglesi,  are  fair  specimens  of 


A  Daughter  of   Venice. 


Florian's  habitues.  They  may  ogle  and 
smile  at  the  Newburyport  miss,  or  at  those 
two  pretty  American  girls  in  grey  tailor- 
made  suits,  in  vain.  The  Americans  are 
industriously  feeding  the  poor  pigeons  very 
tough  biscuit,  and  regard  the  Italians  with 
their  calm,  wondering,  imperturbable  stare, 
very  much  as  they  regard  their  servitore  di 
piazza,  who  chatters  broken  English  to 
their  papa,  near  by.  I  am  quite  certain 
they  are  Americans — these  girls  ;  one  of 
them  bows  ;  yes  —  they  are  the  Misses 
Romney,  of  —  —  West  Fifty-seventh  Street, 
New  York. 

As  I  approach,  the  Misses  Romney  ex 
tend  their  well-gloved  hands  and  screech  : 

"  We  saw  you — at  the  opera — you  would 
not  look  at  us — we  are  doing  Venice  in 
three  days — shocking  state  of  repair,  isn't 
it  ?  Nothing  fit  to  eat  except  the  ome- 
lettes-aux-confitures,  and  one  cannot  live 
on  sweets  always.  When  do  you  go  back, 
Mr.  Burden  ?  Are  you  going  to  write  a 
novel  about  Venice?  or  why  are  you  here? 
Why  are  you  always  here  ?  Didn't  the 
Lamberts  meet  you  here  a  year  ago  ?  And 


22  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


weren't  you  here  the  year  before  that  ? 
We  enjoyed — er  — er — your  last  book  so 
very  much.  The — er — characters  all  so 
interesting.  We  are  going  to  Lady  Gor 
gon's  dance  to-night — Casa  Bonifacio — 
Mamma  met  Lady  Gorgon  in  London.  Are 
you  going — or  are  you — do  you  consider 
yourself  too  old  for  that  sort  of  thing  ?  " 

I  utter  a  few  commonplaces,  seize  the 
honest  hand  of  Papa  Romney,  a  gruff  old 
gentleman  of  sixty,  in  English  mutton 
chops  and  gaiters,  and  make  a  lame  excuse 
to  get  away.  The  Misses  Romney  will  not 
have  it,  however.  They  are  very  well 
dressed,  I  will  say  that  for  them,  and  they 
do  not  disgrace  one  ;  but  their  chatter  is 
not  amusing  to  me.  Nothing  gives  me  a 
sense  of  age  more  than  to  realize  this. 
Has  the  day  completely  gone  by  for  me 
when  chaffing  and  banter  can  serve  to  en 
tertain  ?  I  can  readily  recall  the  old  days 
in  New  York  when  I  enjoyed  this  sort  of 
thing  remarkably  well.  Persiflage  was  then 
the  correct  thing.  It  would  appear  that  to 
be  bright  and  quick  and  dashing  is  still  the 
aim  of  \.\\t  fin-de-sihle  New  York  girl. 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  23 


"  But,  Mr.  Burden,  is  it  not  awfully — er 
—dirty  ?" 

I  stare  at  the  younger  Miss  Romney, 
horrified.  This  is  sacrilege. 

"  But  really,  Venice  does  need  a  good 
spring  cleaning,  as  Mamma  says." 

I  turn   on   my   heel. 

"  There,  you  have  perfectly  disgusted 
Mr.  Burden,"  says  the  other  sister;  "he's 
going  to  leave  us.  Depend  upon  it,  he 
wont  come  near  us  again." 

I  smile  as  I  take  my  departure,  mutter 
ing  to  myself  : 

"  It  is  a  pity  we  Venetians  have  not  still 
the  lettres  de  cachet !  " 

It  would  give  me  enormous  satisfaction 
to  deal  with  these  rich,  crass,  lively,  mate 
rial,  unappreciative  imitators  of  the  Eng 
lish,  summarily,  and  slap  them — willy-nilly 
— into  some  especially  disagreeable  Vene 
tian  oubliette  ! 

As  I  approach  the  western  side  of  the 
Piazza,  it  occurs  to  me  to  ascend  the  slop 
ing  brick  path  of  the  Campanile.  The 
great  tower  is  to-day  thronged.  It  is  ap 
parent  that  every  one  is  as  anxious,  this 


24  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

cool  weather,  as  I  am,  to  get  nearer  the 
sun.  In  the  descending  crowd  of  fashion 
ables  I  encounter  the  sharp  little  black 
eyes  of  the  Countess  Maria-Giuseppe  Co- 
logni.  She  is  a  thin-featured  little  wea 
zened  old  woman,  who,  they  say,  looked  the 
same  when  she  threw  a  bouquet  of  roses 
into  Victor  Emmanuel's  carriage  the  day  he 
first  entered  Rome.  A  pinched,  walnut- 
faced  little  "  "lustrissima,"  who  knows 
every  one's  history,  from  Naples  to  Paris, 
and  who  speaks  seven  languages — and  "  ze 
Inglese  (which  is  not  a  language)  littella 
bit."  She  is  frank  enough  to  announce  to 
me  that  "  ze  Inglese  "  is  not  a  tongue,  but 
a  "  jargon."  She  spoke  to  me  her  faultless 
Italian  for  a  half  hour  at  her  salon  the 
other  night,  and  I  hardly  had  a  chance  to 
reply.  She  wished  me,  she  said  then,  as  she 
repeats  now,  to  meet  her  Venetian  nobili. 

"  You  will  make  a  most  admirable 
model  ;  for  now  they  imitate,  these  illus- 
trissimi — it  is  ze  new  fad,  my  sir — -not  ze 
Inglese,  but  ze  American!. " 

Indeed,  I  have  heard  that  this  was  the 
fact  from  some  friends  in  Rome,  and  I  bow 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  25 

my  acknowledgments.  Countess  Cologni 
nods  and  smiles,  and  gives  me  the  tips  of 
her  shabby  black  gloves.  She  has  the  dull 
complexion  of  the  Venetians,  but  her  eyes 
sparkle  with  their  quick  vivacity.  I  ask 
how  she  has  the  boldness  to  climb  the 
Campanile  to-day.  She  answers  that  the 
Signor  Carmiolente  has  delivered  one  of 
his  fashionable  lectures  at  two  o'clock  in 
the  belfry. 

"  The  Dorian  wars,  you  know,  M.  Bur 
den  ;  as  if  we  cared  what  brought  us  to 
gether.  Professor  Carmiolente  permits  of 
the  whispered  conversation.  Ah,  but  it 
was  delightful  to  hear  again  of  the  con 
quests  of  Venice,  too." 

The  little  woman  seemed  for  a  moment 
to  glow  with  her  pride  of  history,  and  was 
briefly  silent.  All  the  while  she  nods  right 
and  left  at  the  crowd  who  are  coming 
down. 

"  There  is  Milord  H ,  and  there  is 

the  Prince  Kavonowski  ;  ah,  but  there  is 
an  end  of  the  race — there  is  but  one  young 
figlia  in  Venice — of  the  true  Venetians — 
but  one,  and  of  the  men — only  a  few. 


26  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

Have  you  seen  Madamigella  la  Contessa 
Isabel  Folsogni  ?  She  is  Isabel— Inglese — 
not  Isabella,  you  observe.  Charmante — 
charmante  ?  A  child  of  the  sixteenth  cen 
tury.  My  God,  but  you  may  see  her,  and 
Desdemona  or  Cornaro,  or  Bianca  appears 
again.  She  is  just  arrived  from  \\er pension 
at  Paris.  She  has  had  all  the  advantages, 
they  say.  They  gave  her  an  American 
teacher.  She  herself  is  quite  the  American 
— very  free,  very  irrepressible,  very  brave. 
She  is  beginning  in  the  American  way  ;  she 
is  bold  now, — when  she  is  married,  per 
haps,  she  will  grow  more  timid  and  silent, 
like  most  of  your  pretty  countrywomen." 

I  pay  no  attention  to  this  little  thrust, 
and  the  Countess  continues  in  her  fluid 
Italian  : 

"  At   the    Palazzo   Regiani   she  has  insti 
tuted    the    oddest    American    '  evenings  '- 
very  late,  and  after  the  opera  ;   she  organ 
izes  lectures,  debates,  ombres  chinoises.     It 
is  amusing, — her  ardor." 

"  At  the  Palazzo  Regiani  ?  Then  I  have 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  your  beautiful 
Isabel's  back  from  mv  hotel  windows." 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  27 

"  Her  back  !  Mon  Dieu,  you  must  see  her 
front,  M.  Burden,  and  you  will  worship  as 
do  the  others.  You  shall  come  to  my  salon 
on  Tuesday.  You  will  meet  her  ;  you  will 
be  able  to  converse  with  her  in  ze  Inglese 
upon  many  topics — yes,  history,  geography, 
the  States,  Boston,  out,  vraiment.  She  will 
fascinate,  M.  Burden,  truly." 

I  bow,  as  Countess  Cologni  turns  away, 
and  say  : 

"  I  had  a  birthday  last  week,  my  dear 
Countess." 

"  You  come  now  to  the  marriageable  age. 
You  are  not  too  sedate  at  thirty." 

"  Some  days  I  feel  very  old,"  I  say, 
"  even  at  thirty.  You  know,  perhaps,  that 
I  have  met  with  a  great  bereavement — my 
sister,  whom  I  dearly  loved.  I  have  my 
days  of  great  depression.  All  the  whole 
cheery  world  of  America  cannot  revive  me. 
Since  my  sister's  death  I  do  not  care  for 
many  of  the  same  things.  She  was  younger 
than  I  ;  I  saw  many  things  pleasantly 
through  her  eyes.  Oh,  I  feel  very  old  these 
days.  So  I  come  to  Venice — for  some  liter 
ary  work.  You  will  see  little  of  me." 


A  Datighter  of  Venice. 


"  A  true  Venetian,"  she  mutters,  glancing 
me  over  quickly,  "not  an  American  at 
all." 

"  Yes,  I  feel  very  old,  and  yet  at  times  I 
am  suddenly  revived.  I  had  that  expe 
rience  yesterday.  This  young  Madami- 
gella  of  yours  is  very  full  of  buoyant  life 
and  high  spirits — her  vitality  attracts  me, 
I  confess." 

I  recount  the  little  episode  of  the  King 
Charles  spaniel  which  I  saw  from  my  hotel. 
Countess  Cologni  looks  at  me  a  moment 
with  a  bright  smile. 

"  You  are  too  minute,"  she  says  ;  "  you 
betray  yourself." 

"I?" 

"The  Countess  Isabel  has  really  made 
an  impression." 

I  burst  out  laughing.  These  little  old 
Italian  "  'lustrissimi,"  are  they  always  at 
their  matchmaking,  even  in  dreams  ?  It 
seems  so.  It  is  either  scandal  or  match 
making.  The  Countess  is  an  old  friend  of 
mine,  and  she  has  the  warmest  heart  in  the 
world.  It  is  not  often  scandal  with  her, 
yet  I  have  heard  her  tell  strange  tales. 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  29 


Many  years  ago  I  met  her  in  Rome.  At 
that  time  she  nearly  had  me  married  to 
a  rather  risque  Russian  noblewoman.  At 
Nice,  in  the  spring  of  1889,  she  confronted 
me  with  an  exceedingly  lovely,  but  entirely 
stupid  Italian  widow.  It  amuses  me  to  see 
if  she  will  try  again  now.  She  has  come 
to  regard  me  as  a  grand  parti,  not  so  much 
because  of  my  literary  repute,  but  because 
I  am,  she  hints,  so  fabulously  rich.  Indeed, 
to  her  all  Americans  are  rich.  In  addition 
to  my  desirability  as  a  millionaire,  I  believe 
she  has  taken  a  fancy  to  me  because  she 
knows  she  amuses  me,  and  I  will  listen  to 
her.  There  are  not  many  men  who  can 
afford  to  pay  her  this  compliment.  I  never 
go  abroad  of  a  summer  without  meeting 
her — at  Homburg,  at  Baden-Baden,  at  Aix- 
les-Bains,  at  Nice.  She  never  forgets  me, 
she  never  forgets  to  waylay  me,  to  plan  for 
me.  I  fancy  I  am  down  in  her  books  as 
incorrigible  ;  even  at  my  age  she  is  still 
praising  a  pretty  girl  to  me  !  Eheufugaces, 
Postume,  Postume  !  My  pretty  girls  must  all 
go  down  in  my  books,  and  the  amusing 
little  Countess  must  remember,  once  for 


30  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

all,  that  my  years  have  all  had   three  hun 
dred  and  sixty-five  days. 

I  leave  her  and  stroll  upward,  in  the 
slant  of  the  Campanile.  After  the  exces 
sive  sunlight  the  dim,  sloping  gallery  is  a 
relief.  I  begin  to  catch  glimpses  of  the 
roofs  below  me  through  the  narrow  fenetres 
of  the  tower.  Suddenly  I  hear  the  tinkle 
of  a  silver  bell,  such  as  a  small  pet  dog 
might  wear  on  its  collar.  Then,  listening, 
I  hear  what  I  take  to  be  a  young  boy's  rich 
voice  calling.  It  has  a  fluty  tone,  clear 
and  sweet  as  the  ringing  bells  of  the  dis 
tant  San  Giorgio  Maggiore.  Down  the 
winding  pathway  the  voice  makes  a  sin 
gular  music  ;  it  pervades  the  spot  where  I 
stand  ;  it  is  a  song  from  "  Carmen  ;"  it  winds 
down  the  spiral,  thrilling  me  with  its  own 
volume  as  if  I  were  standing  at  the  vibrant 
bend  of  a  silver  trumpet.  Sweet,  powerful, 
strange — like  music  at  night  on  the  water. 
Presto,  a  thundering  basso  profundo  growls 
out  a  tremendous, 

"Isabella!" 

— and  the  boy's  voice  ceases.    Another  turn, 
and  I  am  face  to  face — not  with  a  boy,  but 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  31 

with  a  beautiful  young  girl.     It  is  Mada- 
migella  the  Countess  Isabel. 

I  think  Countess  Cologni  forbore  to 
state  that  the  young  Venetian  girl  was 
present  at  the  belfry  lecture,  hoping  that  I 
would  meet  her  again  in  some  such  unex 
pected  way  as  this.  I  am  quite  sufficiently 
impressed.  "Isabel  is  astonishingly  beauti 
ful  ;  she  has  a  delightful  clearness  of  com 
plexion  ;  there  is  a  lively  sparkle  in  her 
eyes.  As  she  sees  me,  she  is  suddenly 
silent  ;  she  walks  very  straight,  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  left  ;  she  purposely 
pretends  not  to  see  me  ;  there  is  a  face  full 
of  the  hauteur  of  a  high,  inherited  pride — 
full,  too,  of  an  amusing  curiosity.  For  a 
moment  I  say  to  myself,  I  have  discovered 
the  young  Queen  Cornaro  breathing  the 
very  air  of  the  old  life  in  Venice  ;  holding 
the  very  shape  of  the  fair  women  who  kept 
back  the  crusaders  from  Palestine  by  their 
beauty  ;  yes,  as  far  removed  in  thought  and 
feeling  from  the  commercial  spirit  of  our 
time  as  is  the  passionate  Othello.  Her 
beauty  is  frankly  of  the  dazzling  kind.  It 
is  radiant,  queenly,  unquestioned,  over- 


32  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

powering.  I  note  her  salient  features 
quickly  ;  her  face  and  throat  are  milk 
white  ;  her  hair,  bronze  gold,  is  confined  in 
a  quaint  embroidered  cap.  Chiefly  she  im 
presses  me  as  a  thing  of  life  ;  she  seems 
to  walk  buoyantly  ;  to  scarcely  contain 
herself  ;  to  be  almost  irresistible  with  her 
youth  and  lightness.  Yet  in  her  eyes,  too, 
this  curiosity.  As  if  she  would  make  in 
quiries  herself  concerning  all  things  that 
live  and  move  and  have  their  being.  She 
is  at  once  mediaeval,  and  very  modern — 
this  beautiful  creature.  I  tell  myself  that 
she  is  worth  studying ;  worth  days  of 
Quaclre,  or  Capelletti. 

Following  her  at  a  little  distance  comes 
a  tall,  dark,  elderly  gentleman,  whom  I  take 
to  be  the  Count,  her  father.  His  expression 
is  as  stern  and  contracted  as  the  daughter's 
is  open  and  fancy  free.  There  is  something 
in  the  fact  that  she  does  not  walk  beside 
him.  There  is  no  appearance  of  cama 
raderie  between  them,  and  yet  I  fancy  the 
stern  old  Venetian  nobile  lends  himself  to 
many  of  her  whims — that  it  is  she  and  her 
curiosity  that  has  led  the  rheumatic  old 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  33 

knees   up   the    long    incline   to    the    belfry 
lecture. 

They  pass  by  in  an  instant — father  and 
daughter — and  I  slowly  keep  on  my  way. 
What  has  impressed  me  at  once  is  the 
unusual  in  the  girl.  I  find  I  am  mentally 
endeavoring  to  place  her,  and  that  in 
placing  her  I  involuntarily  go  back  to 
Pampinea,  and  Fiammetta,  and  Emilia  and 
Neiphile.  She  is  not — decidedly  not — a 
modern  Venetian  ;  neither  is  she,  as  the 
Countess  Cologni  pretends,  in  the  slightest 
an  American.  I  place  her,  warm  with  her 
glowing  life  and  her  bounding  health,  com 
fortably  in  the  cool  gardens  of  the  Floren 
tine  villa  of  Boccaccio.  And  now,  that  I 
have  summarily  disposed  of  her,  in  this 
historic  niche,  I  try  to  forget  her.  I  draw 
a  long  breath  of  the  cool  sea  air  from  the 
Adriatic,  as  I  emerge  into  the  belfry  of  the 
Campanile.  I  lean  upon  the  parapet  alone, 
for  all  have  now  departed  of  the  fashion 
able  throng  who  were  here  a  moment 
since.  I  am  carried  back  to  the  Venice  of 
the  sixteenth  century.  It  is  her  face — her 
carriage — her  air  of  old  patrician  grace 
3 


A  Daughter  of   Venice. 


that  causes  me  to  forget — not  her,  hut  the 
present,  and  to  see  once  more,  far  below 
me,  the  gorgeous  pageant  of  the  Bucen- 
taur  !  Still,  I  cannot  forget  her.  Isabel  is 
Venice,  the  old  vital  Venice,  the  Queen 
of  the  Adriatic,  which  here  and  now 
stretches  beneath  the  sun  far  out  to  the 
eastward.  Her  beauty  has  overpowered 
and  dazzled  me.  I,  who  but  just  now  was 
harping  upon  my  age  !  I,  who  avoid  the 
young  girl  always,  as  a  young  and  lively 
pest !  Her  image  haunts  my  eyes  as  I  go 
down  the  long  spiral  again,  and  wander 
about  the  empty  Giardini  Reale.  I  wish 
to  be  alone — to  think  of  her  as  charming 
as  Boccaccio  may  have  known  her  years 
ago,  or  as  the  soldier  Mocenigo  may  have 
crowned  her  in  the  beautiful  Catharine, 
Queen  of  Cyprus.  I  wish  to  be  alone — 
to  try  and  forget  her  ! 


November  i$th. 

HAVE  spent  a 
rainy  week  in 
Venice,  and  to 
night,  for  the 
first  time,  the 
stars  are  out  in 
full  force,  as  are 
the  Venetians — 
in  the  Piazza. 
The  western 

wind  is  balmy,  as  it  sweeps  over  the  long  la- 
gunes,  and,  as  an  indication  of  the  thermom 
eter,  Florian's  little  tables  are  out  beyond 
the  arcade.  There  is  indifferent  music  at 
the  eastern  end  of  the  Piazza  ;  a  band 
composed  of  mediocre  talent,  discourses  of 
La  Belle  Helene,  and  Aida  and  Norma.  I 
smoke  my  cigarette,  and  sip  my  coffee  with 
a  friend  who  has  been  strangely  hovering 
over  the  two  American  girls  who  are  upon 
their  southern  flight  toward  Egypt.  The 


36  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

two  Misses  Romney  of  New  York  have 
quite  fascinated  him,  but  to  which  of  the 
two  he  will  ultimately  submit  his  fate,  I 
think  he  will  leave  to  chance  to  decide. 
As  they  talk  of  "  doing  "  Egypt,  my  friend 
will  "do"  Egypt  also.  I  believe  that  if 
the  two  Misses  Romney  decide  to  visit 
Mount  Ararat,  my  friend  will  seriously  put 
himself  in  communication  with  an  Ameri 
can  consul  at  Erzroum  or  Damascus,  for 
the  furnishing  of  a  suitable  caravan  !  He 
finds  Venice  very  disagreeable,  and  he 
hopes  the  two  Misses  Romney  will  soon 
mature  their  plans  for  the  spoiling  of  the 
Egyptians.  After  listening  calmly  to  a 
lengthened  discourse  upon  the  merits, 
traits,  characteristics  and  episodic  histories 
of  these  young  ladies,  in  self-defence  I 
leave  him.  I  must,  perforce,  see  these  in 
teresting  creatures  face  to  face.  The  fact 
is,  I  have  determined  to  go  to  Lady  Gor 
gon's  dance. 

Peace,  my  conscience.  I  came  to  Venice 
solely  for  work  ;  so  far,  I  have  done 
nothing  but  dream.  I  have  spent  but  half 
a  day  at  the  Libraria  Vecchia.  I  have 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  37 

made  no  progress  ;  a  nice  example  I  am 
setting  to  Alfred,  indeed.  My  diary  will 
end  in  being  a  confession — the  confession 
of  an  elderly  fool  ! 

Same  Night. 

It  is  nearly  ten  o'clock.  I  give  my  direc 
tions  to  the  gondolier  :  "  The  Palazzo  Bon 
ifacio."  Pietro  is  dressed  in  white  trou 
sers,  a  blue  shirt,  a  scarf  about  his  waist,  a 
straw  hat,  in  spite  of  November.  He  stands 
upon  the  poppa  and  salutes  me.  He  is  still 
incensed  against  the  "  maledetti  vaporetti  " 
—  the  little  steamboats  whose  "  swash"  on 
the  Grand  Canal  has  caused  the  gondole  to 
nearly  capsize.  Is  there  then  no  saint  left 
to  kill  off  these  vaporetti ?  I  step  within 
the  dark  folds  of  thefelze,  and  immediately 
thereafter  Pietro  plunges  me  into  one  of 
the  narrowest  piccoli  canali  which  lead  out 
from  that  familiar  one  which,  in  the  sombre 
night,  reflects  the  Bridge  of  Sighs. 

The  stars  show  brighter  in  the  narrow 
open  rim  between  the  palace  roofs,  and  the 
occasional  lamp  at  the  landing  stairs  makes 
the  darkness  felt. 


38  A  Daughter  of   Venice. 

"  Giae,  giae!"  shouts  an  unseen  gon 
dolier,  and  a  small  oil  lamp  flashes  past 
me ;  I  see  nothing  else  ;  I  may  be,  for 
aught  I  know,  being  silently  steered  to  my 
death.  I  care  not  ;  I  recline  on  the 
cushions,  and  seem  to  feel  the  smooth 
water  slipping  underneath  ;  this  is  enough  ; 
this  is  Venice.  I  hardly  know  or  care 
whether  the  Casa  Bonifacio  may  not  be  at 
Malamocco,  or  buried  in  the  center  of  the 
most  intricate  maze  of  canals,  in  the  heart 
of  the  city.  Swiftly,  with  the  familiar  little 
rocking  motion,  I  go  on  in  the  darkness, 
and  the  walls  on  either  side  seem  given  up 
to  the  dead.  There  is  fear,  and  tragedy 
and  danger  everywhere — but  this,  too,  is 
Venice  —  and  I  am  merely  prosaically 
taking  a  cab  to  Lady  Gorgon's  dance,  that 
is  all  ! 

We  seem  to  turn  a  corner  suddenly  ; 
again  there  are  diabolical  shouts  of 
"  preme  !  preme  !  "  of  "  giae  !  giae  !  "  and  we 
come  to  an  abrupt  standstill  ;  all  the  saints 
in  the  calendar  are  now  hurled  furiously  by 
one  gondolier  at  the  other.  I  raise  my 
felze  at  my  right  and  look  out.  Beneath 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  39 

the  one  lamp,  which  casts  a  dim  yellow 
light  down  on  the  dark  water,  a  woman's 
hand  steals  out  from  the  opposing  gon 
dola  ;  it  is  covered  with  jewels  which  flash 
and  sparkle  and  dance  with  light.  In 
stantly,  with  a  sense  of  the  humor  of  the 
unexpected,  I  grasp  it.  It  is  young  and 
warm,  and  it  is  also  strong  ;  it  twists  and 
withdraws  itself  quickly  while  I  hear  with 
in  a  rich,  boyish,  contralto  voice  giving  a 
perplexed  cry  of  astonishment.  At  the 
same  moment  our  gondolas  separate,  and, 
after  a  few  more  abrupt  turns,  I  am  at 
the  landing  stairs  of  the  Casa  Bonifacio. 

Lady  Gorgon's  function  is  nearly  at  its 
height.  The  windows  give  out  a  brilliant 
light.  The  entire  scene  before  the  house 
is  full  of  life  and  pleasure.  Outside  there 
are  no  reminders  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
The  red  and  yellow  lanterns  strung  on  the 
pali  flicker  and  dance  on  the  water  of  the 
canal  like  the  fantastic  sprites  and  ghosts  of 
long-forgotten  entertainments.  I  love  the 
dark  Italians,  arriving  and  passing  up  the 
stairway,  and  their  long  mediaeval  cloaks. 
It  is  again  a  night  in  1589  ! 


40  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

Upstairs  the  dancing  has  already  begun  ; 
the  music  of  violins  pours  out  of  the  casa 
windows,  which  are  open  to  the  mild  night. 
I  enter  the  mediaeval  portal,  once  the  home 
of  the  painter  Bonifacio,  and  leave  Venice 
behind.  There  is  all  the  aspect  of  a 
modern  London  crush.  Lady  Gorgon  has 
evidently  furnished  the  casa  from  her  Lon 
don  upholsterers.  The  sala  are  not  small, 
yet  a  bit  later  they  will  be  comfortably 
crowded  ;  at  present  they  have  quite  the 
cheerful  comme  il  faut  English  air. 
There  are  many  red  flower  decorations. 
There  are  many  good-looking  Englishmen 
arriving,  and  a  number  of  handsome 
women.  I  touch  the  tips  of  my  hostess's 
fingers,  and  she  pronounces  my  name,  I 
know  not  why,  "  Signor  Vitella,"  at  the 
same  time  saying  to  her  husband  : 

"  Another  Venetian  ;  where  are  the  Eng 
lish  ?" 

I  do  not  attempt  to  correct  her,  the  crush 
is  too  great.  Lady  Gorgon  considers  me  a 
Venetian.  Is  it  because  I  am  sallow,  and 
middle-aged,  and  the  lines  of  my  face  are 
sad  ?  Yes,  I  feel  that  I  am,  to-night,  truly 


LADY    GORGON. 


A   Daughter  of   Venice.  41 

a  Venetian  ;  I  will  not  attempt  to  correct 
the  impression. 

Lady  Gorgon  has  written  a  book  called 
"  A  Moral  Italy  ; "  a  gorgeous  copy  lies 
near  her  upon  a  velvet  cushion,  on  a  table. 
The  book  has  been  criticised,  as  requiring 
of  the  Italians  a  too  severely  English  stand 
ard.  At  the  end  of  the  volume  there  is 
an  interesting  advertisement  in  which  the 
noble  authoress  recommends  to  them  a  cer 
tain  English  soap.  As  she  often  has  occa 
sion,  in  several  chapters,  to  reprove  the 
Italian  lack  of  cleanliness,  it  has  caused 
a  number  of  indignant  protests  from  the 
Italians,  and  an  endless  amount  of  joking 
and  amused  comment  from  the  Americans 
present,  but  for  this  she  cares  little,  they 
say.  Lady  Gorgon  has  the  reputation  of 
entertaining  an  intense  dislike  of  all  things 
American — and  in  particular  of  American 
girls.  She  is  always  engaged  in  the  laud 
able  effort  to  "  rescue  "  some  rich  young 
peer  from  their  clutches. 

Lord  Gorgon  probably  corrects  her  as  to 
my  name  ;  at  the  distance  of  the  room  she 
fixes  her  lorgnette  upon  me. 


42  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


"Ah,  Mr.  Burden,"  she  calls  out  in  a 
loud  voice,  "  I  quite  forgot  ;  you  are  an 
American,  aren't  you  ?  There  is  some  one 
here  who  desires  to  be  one  also." 

And  she  seizes  and  leads  me  into  the 
adjoining  sala,  where  there  is  dancing.  I 
observe  the  two  Misses  Romney  floating 
about  in  the  arms  of  Italian  officers,  and  I 
see  a  very  handsome  young  girl  waltzing 
with  a  tall  Englishman — her  face  in  an 
ecstasy  of  delight  at  the  music,  at  the 
whirl  of  the  dance,  at  the  quickening  of  her 
pulses.  Lady  Gorgon  does  not  hesitate  ; 
she  stops  them. 

"  Signorina  Isabel,"  she  says — and  I 
fancy  that  the  girl,  whose  back  is  turned, 
is  making  a  wry  face — "  here  is  a  real 
American,  Mr.  Burden,  for  you." 

And  I  am  presented  to  La  Comtessa 
Isabella  Folsogni,  and  to  Lord  Blandis, 
a  blond  young  man,  her  partner,  who 
breathes  rather  hard,  bows,  looks  annoyed, 
and  is  dragged  away  by  our  hostess  with 
hardly  an  explanation,  but  with  a  motherly 
protecting  air,  too,  as  if  she  were  afraid  of 
the  fascinations  of  the  girl  for  her  young 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  43 

English  lad.  Lord  Blandis  is,  I  believe, 
one  of  the  wealthiest  young  peers  of  Eng 
land  ;  he  has  a  penchant  for  American 
girls  ;  he  has  been  dangling  about  in 
Venice  for  two  months  ;  he  is  often,  they 
say,  a  participant  in  Isabel's  American 
evenings  at  the  Palazzo  Regiani. 

I  give  the  Comtessa  Isabel  my  arm,  and 
we  make  our  way  to  a  window,  where  she 
fans  herself  vigorously,  and  looks  me  over 
with  a  disdainful  air.  Her  complexion  is 
pale,  her  gown  is  white,  she  wears  white 
roses  ;  there  is  no  color  about  her  except 
her  lips,  which  are  vividly  red.  She  is  not 
heated,  and  her  fanning  is,  I  judge,  purely 
perfunctory,  or  by  way  of  relieving  her 
feelings.  It  is  hardly  the  pretty  timidity 
of  an  ingenue. 

So  this  is  Isabel  !  Already  I  have  heard 
the  vague  rumors  that  Lord  Blandis  has 
enrolled  himself  as  an  admirer — and  his 
reputation  for  "  adopting "  pretty  Amer 
ican  girls  has  been  known,  in  London, 
for  two  seasons.  It  is  the  fad  of  these 
rich  young  Englishmen  to  distinguish 
our  young  countrywomen.  I  admit  that  I 


44  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


have  Lord  Blandis  in  my  mind,  when  I 
ask  : 

"  You  wish  to  be  an  American  ?  " 

"  I  wish  to  be  very  free,"  shortly,  and,  as 
it  were,  finally. 

"  You  are  not  free  enough  in  Italy  ?  "  I 
glance  around  the  room  at  the  dancers, 
where  she,  an  unmarried  girl,  has  been 
dancing,  and  thinking  of  the  hackneyed 
talk  of  the  "  suppressed  sex  "  one  hears  so 
much  of  in  America. 

"  The  only  one  of  my  race  unmarried — is 
that  freedom,  M.  Burden  ?  " 

I  receive  the  full  blaze  of  her  fine  eyes. 

"  You  have,  then,  emancipated  your 
self  ?" 

She  nods  her  head  twice,  giving  me  a 
little  smile. 

"  Signorina,  you  are  very  brave."  I 
bow. 

"  Tell  me  about  America,"  she  says,  im 
peratively,  as  she  leans  back  against  the 
casement  ;  "  is  it  true  the  jeune  fille  rules 
there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  rules — everywhere." 

"Very  well  ;  it  is  as  it  should  be.     Tell 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  45 

me — do  your  police — are  they  the  only  es 
corts  ?  "  There  is  an  amused  glance  in  her 
lovely  eyes. 

"  In  New  York,  yes — crossing  Broad 
way." 

She  looks  puzzled  ;  I  am  adding  to  her 
store  of  information. 

"In  Ni  Gark  ? "  Our  eyes  meet  a  mo 
ment.  "Tell  me  truly,  M.  Burden,  all 
whatever  they  do — the  young  girls.  Is  it 
that  they  go  and  come  and  do  as  they  may 
please?  Do  they  arrange  the  marriage,  as 
I  am  told  ?  And  do  they  insist  upon  this 
thing  in  marriage — this  love  ?  It  is  very 
droll,  very  amusing." 

"  Yes,  they  insist  upon  this  love,"  I  say  ; 
"  but  they  are  learning  to  be  ambitious,"  I 
continue.  "  I  think  it  may  be  said  they  are 
gradually  beginning  to  see  the  foolishness 
of  this  thing  '  love.'  They  are  able  to  ap 
preciate  titles." 

"Titles!"  Here  the  Comtessa  Isabel 
makes  up  a  face  of  derision.  I  am  of  the 
vague  impression  that  she  is  about  to  give 
me  some  of  her  very  ultra-republican  sen 
timents,  and  tell  me  that  she  knows  better, 


46  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


when  that  little  lynx-eyed  Countess  Cologni 
comes  up. 

"  You  two  Americani,"  she  says,  with  a 
mock  flourish,  "you  must  dance  —  all 
American!  dance  divinely  ;  I  wish  to  ad 
mire  you." 

"  I  dance  no  more  to-night,"  says  Isabel, 
in  Italian.  "  I  am  on  my  way  to  the  opera. 
Papa  waits  for  me  there.  Ah,  my  dear 
Madame,  but  I  met  with  an  odd  adven 
ture  in  coming.  I  put  my  hand  out  to  see 
if  it  was  raining.  I  shall  never  know 
whether  it  rained  or  not.  I  felt  a  strong 
mans  hand  grasp  mine." 

"  O,  mon  Dieu  ! "  exclaims  the  little 
Countess. 

"  It  nearly  pulled  me  into  the  canal.  I 
gave  a  loud  shriek.  Is  it  that  we  have  our 
smaller  canals  infested  with  foreign  pirates, 
you  think,  M.  Burden  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly  a  Turk  or  an  Algerine,"  I 
laugh,  as  she  gives  me  a  quick  little 
glance. 

"  I  am  very  much  afraid  we  harbor  the 
miscreant  here  in  the  Casa  Bonifacio,"  she 
says  coolly,  fanning  herself  briskly. 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  47 


"I  do  not  understand ,"  says  the 

elder  lady,  blinking  her  little  black  eyes, 
and  pretending  to  be  somewhat  fright 
ened. 

"  I  gave  orders  to  my  gondolier  to  follow 
the  pirate  ;  we  gave  chase ;  we  traced  him 
to  these  landing  stairs  ;  his  gondola  is  at 
the  moment  at  our  pali.  We  followed  him 
in  ;  we  saw  him  dive  into  the  intricacies  of 
the  cloak-room  ;  there  we  left  him — 

"  M.  Burden,"  cries  the  little  Countess, 
"  is  it  not  quite  inexplicable  ?  It  reminds 
one  of  the  days  of  the  Austrians.  I  shall 
be  wholly  afraid  to  go  home." 

"  A  most  serious  breach  of  the  laws  and 
statutes  of  Venice,"  insists  Isabel,  "  for 
which  the  penalty  is  a  thousand  stripes, 
and  the  ransom  a  thousand  golden  ducats." 

As  it  seems  to  me — though  she  attempts 
to  be  jocose — the  words  roll  off  her  tongue 
in  quite  the  old  Venetian  "  grand  manner." 

"  Foolish  pirate,"  I  laugh  gallantly,  "  not 
to  have  kept  the  injured  hand  in  his  for 
ever." 

Isabel  does  not  despise  me  for  this;  it 
amuses  her. 


48  A   Daughter  of  Venice. 

"  Questa  cosa  non  m'entra,"  exclaims  the 
little  Countess  Cologni  ;  "  it  is  a  grave 
mystery." 

"  Explain  it,  M.  Burden,"  says  Isabel, 
while  her  face  tries  to  hide  its  merriment. 

"  Your  hand." 

The  girl  pulls  off  her  long  white  gants 
de  Suede  hastily,  and  stretches  her  pretty 
jewelled  fingers  out  to  me.  On  her  lips  is 
the  same  quizzical  smile  ;  her  eyes  as  I 
gaze  into  them  betray  a  greenish  tint  like 
the  depths  of  the  narrow  Venetian  canals. 
As  our  hands  clasp,  she  snatches  hers  away 
quickly. 

"  The  same  !  "  she  cries,  rubbing  her 
hands  together  as  if  I  had  chilled  her. 
"  Ecco  !  the  pirate  confessed  !  " 

Countess  Cologni  gives  a  loud  screech 
ing  laugh  ;  others  draw  near  us.  Isabel 
takes  my  arm,  and  we  move  away  from  the 
window  and  from  the  Countess. 

"  That  story  will  now  go  the  rounds," 
says  the  girl  ;  "  they  will  make  a  great  lie 
of  it,  as  they  make  stories  of  everything 
I  do." 

It  is  evident,  however,  that  she  is  well 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  49 

pleased  to  be  talked  about.  It  is  clearly 
her  idea — her  conception  of  the  part  of  an 
American  girl — to  be  bold,  and  to  be  well 
advertised. 

"  You  let  my  hand  go  very  quickly,"  she 
says  in  English  ;  "  you  have  not — determi 
nation  ?  "  And  she  laughs. 

"  Because  you  gave  such  a  cry  of  dismay. 
You  were  badly  frightened,  Signorina  ;  I 
was  sorry  for  you." 

"  I  was  surprised — " 

"  Frightened." 

"  M.  Burden,  you  contradict  me."  She 
draws  herself  up. 

"  When  you  cried  out,  I  recognized  you, 
in  spite  of  the  darkness.  I  remembered 
your  voice  in  the  Campanile  to-day.  Yes  ; 
and  I  have  seen  you  before  to-day." 

"  M.  Burden  !  " 

"  From  my  hotel  I  saw  you  one  day, 
playing  with  your  little  dog,  in  the  Palazzo 
Regiani  ;  and  on  another  I  saw  you  with  a 
joyous  abandon,  running  and  sliding  along 
the  polished  floor  as  if  on  skates." 

"  M.  Burden  !  "     She  gives  a  little  gasp. 

"Yes,  as  I  used  to  slide  myself  when 
4 


50  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


a  boy  upon  the  ice.  Ah,  how  I  envy 
you  !  " 

"You  laugh?"  (Ready  to  be  very  indig 
nant.) 

"  No  ;  I  envy  you." 

"  You  are  then  so  old,  M.  Burden  ?" 

"  Old  as — Mocenigo.     Am  I  not  ?  " 

She  laughs,  and  I  say  :  "  The  windows 
of  my  appartamenti  are  opposite." 

"  You  spy  me?"  she  cries  out  in  Eng 
lish. 

"  Let  me  say  now,  that  everything  you 
do,  Madamigella,  is  known  to  me  !  " 

She  gives  a  little  cry. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,  you  know  then  how  very 
wicked  I  am  become  in  my  efforts  to  imitate 
your  countrywomen  !  "  Her  eyes  flash  with 
jollity. 

"  Do  you  imitate  their  faults  only  ? " 

"  Do  you  admit  of — faults  ?  " 

"I?  I  am  no  friend  of  America,"  I 
laugh  ;  "that  is  the  reason  I  return  again 
and  again  to  my  beloved  Venice.  If  you 
knew  America  as  I  do,  perhaps,  Madami 
gella,  you  would  not  wish  to  imitate." 

"  You  care  not  for  your  freedom  ?  " 


A  Daughter  of   Venice.  5 1 


"  It's  a  myth." 

"That  is  a  lie."     (In  English.) 

I  bow,  with  an  amused  smile. 

"  There  is  more  freedom  here,"  I  say  ;  "  a 
young  girl  may  sing  as  loud  as  she  pleases 
in  the  Campanile." 

"Oh,  but  that  is  not  what  I  mean." 

There  is  a  little  pause.  The  sala  of  the 
Casa  Bonifacio  are  becoming  more  crowded 
every  moment  ;  there  is  an  open  balcony 
out  upon  which  we  step.  The  night  is 
quite  warm.  Below  us  gondolas  and  gon 
doliers  make  a  pretty  show  under  the  lamp 
light.  Not  far  away  is  the  inevitable  band 
of  serenaders.  Hark — ah,  yes,  it  is  also  the 
inevitable  "  II  Trovatore  " — but  not  so  badly 
sung. 

"Perhaps — -sometime  I  may  hear  yous'mg 
again,"  I  say  as  the  music  floats  up  to  us. 
In  Venice  one  becomes  very  silly  on  a  night 
like  this.  I  am  aware  that  I  have  been  a 
bit  too  forward  in  the  tones  of  my  voice,  by 
her  drawing  herself  slightly  away. 

"  Come,  my  dear  M.  Burden  "  (very 
coolly),  "  come  any  night  to  the  Palazzo 
Regiani  at  twelve.  At  that  hour  we  sing 


52  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


over  the  opera  again.  We  travesty  it,  I 
and  my  friends." 

"At  night?" 

"  Certainement."  Then  in  English, "  After 
the  opera  we  have  great  excitements. 
Music,  dancing,  cards,  charades,  American 
games,  puss  in  ze  corner,  blind-man's-bliff 
— what  you  call  him  ?  poker — it  is  exciting  ! 
Besides,  at  times,  we  do  the  serious  ;  we 
listen  while  my  father  reads  to  us  a  speech 
of  M.  Webster,  of  M.  Clay,  of  M.  ze  Honest 
Abe,  or,  perhaps,  an  account  of  ze  conquest 
of  Mexico.  There  is  debates,  oratory — ma 
foi,  we  are  entire  American}." 

I  conceal  my  amusement  as  she  con 
tinues,  volubly  and  earnestly,  confiding 
in  me  because  I  am  an  American. 

"  My  father  and  I  make  to  live  as  you 
in  Ni  Gark.  We  read  ze  American  news 
papers,  of  ze  murders,  of  ze  matrimonial 
infelicities  of  your  people.  We  introduce 
many  of  your  customs.  As  for  me,  I  do  my 
part — I  do  all  I  can.  I  am  fiancee  to  two 
gentlemen,  the  Count  Grandino,  and  the 
celebrated  French  artist,  M.  Aretier.  You 
perceive  I  am  quite  serious  of  purpose,  M. 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  53 


Burden.  I  explain  my  purpose  to  these 
two  at  great  length,  but  they  are  ever — 
what  is  it  to  say — at  odds  ?  It  is  that  I 
fear  a  duel.  They  will  not  understand  that 
I  have  become  an  American — that  I  follow 
the  new  customs — that  I  choose  to  fiancer 
myself  to  those  that  I  find  agreeable.  But 
they  are  both  immensely  stupid,  M.  Burden. 
It  is  that  they  will  not  comprehend  this 
new  movement — this  new  regime.  Non,  it 
is  a  bore.  I  throw  them,  the  both,  as  you 
would  say.  They  tire  me  ;  they  are  not 
liberal  ;  they  are  not  of  the  new  spirit 
of  the  age.  Ma  foi,  they  are  both  selfish, 
also  !  " 

"  What  other  American  customs  have  you 
adopted,  Madamigella  ? "  I  ask,  amused. 
At  the  same  time  I  wonder  at  the  sweet 
and  innocent  expression  of  her  face — this 
girl  of  two  lovers  ! 

"  I  make  myself  to  go  about  alone — 
she  replies. 

As  she  speaks,  she  holds  down  her  head, 
half  abashed,  as  if  she  feels  that  I  will  be 
overcome,  although  an  American,  by  this 
shocking  bit  of  boldness. 


54  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


"  And  you  have  met  with  nothing  dis 
agreeable  ?" 

"  Until  to-night." 

"  And  from  an  American  !  Madamigella, 
permit  me  to  offer  you  an  unqualified — a 
national— apology." 

Again  she  giv'es  me  her  deliciously 
modelled,  soft  young  hand  with  its  jewels. 

"  We  will  be  friends,  M.  Burden,  and  you 
will  come  to  the  Palazzo  Regiani?"  She 
looks  up  into  my  eyes  confidingly  :  "  I 
must  learn  from  you  directly  of  America." 

"  The  best  of  friends,"  I  say  warmly, 
and  hold  her  hand  in  mine  now,  for  a  brief 
moment,  thinking  it  would  not  be  positively 
disagreeable  to  share  the  American  en 
gagement  of  this  charming  young  lady 
even  with  M.  Aretier  and  the  Count  Gran- 
dino. 

Below  us  now,  the  gondolieri  on  the  tra- 
ghetti  are  singing  "  Funiculi  —  funicula," 
and  their  raucous  voices  come  up  to  us  on 
the  air  mingled  with  the  "  Subito — subito  " 
of  arriving  and  departing  gondolas.  The 
ball  is  growing  to  its  height,  and  the  "  flute, 
violin,  bassoon  "  are  heard  from  the  great 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


55 


windows  of  the  ball-room.  There  is  a  dis 
position  on  the  part  of  several  other  couples 
to  take  possession  of  our  little  balcony.  A 
handsome  English  girl  comes  out  to  flirt  a 


little  with  Lord  Blandis.  She  has  a  degage' 
air  ;  he  looks  only  at  my  charming  vis-a-vis. 
The  Countess  Isabel  pays  no  attention  to 
him,  and  waves  her  fan  languidly. 


56  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


"  Tell  me,"  she  says,  "  are  all  American! 
lika  those  one  sees  at  Danieli's  ?" 

"  Americans  are  cosmopolitan — 

"  They  shriek — I  try  to  shriek,  too,  M. 
Burden!"  She  laughs  with  a  schoolgirl's 
glee.  "  They  are  nasal — they  speak  through 
ze  nose  ;  so  do  I — (Imitating.)  See  ?  I 
study  the  girl  Americana  as  I  do  a  part  in 
a  comedy.  Eet  ese  fun!  " 

We  re-enter  the  window  as  the  serenaders 
cease  their  music.  The  Countess  Cologni 
advances,  in  search  of  us,  across  the  scaglia 
floor  of  the  sala,  leading  by  either  hand 
two  ladies  of  the  old  nobili  rank.  When 
they  come  opposite  us  they  raise  their 
lorgnettes,  and  stare  at  Isabel  coolly 
enough. 

"  We  wished  to  see  the  Signorina,"  says 
the  taller  and  more  scrawny  of  the  two,  in 
Italian,  "  who  has  had  the  audacity  to  walk 
alone  twice  around  the  Piazza, — yes,  and 
along  the  Merceria  as  far  as  the  Rialto. 
It  is  an  unheard-of  attempt,  it  is  ultra- 
liberal — it  is  immodest." 

"  It  is  that  we  change  some  of  our  old 
customs  for  those  of  the  new  and  better 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  57 


across  the  sea,"  murmurs  Countess  Co- 
logni,  half  apologetically,  in  her  soft  Vene 
tian. 

"  The  new  and  better  !  "  exclaims  the 
elder  lady  of  rank.  "  Who,  pray,  is  to  be 
the  judge  ?" 

"  Ladies,"  says  the  Countess  Isabella,  "  it 
is  altogether  right  for  young  girls  like 
myself  to  be  the  judges."  Isabel  has  the 
air  and  attitude  of  a  lecturer. 

A  chorus  of  voices.  "  So  improper.  So 
risque"." 

"  We  know  that  is  best  of  which  our 
consciences  approve.  We  young  girls 
would  be  free.  Hitherto  we  have  been 
prisoners  at  our  own  firesides.  We  have 
been  pretty  playthings  who  could  not  en 
dure  the  bright  sun  and  the  fresh  air.  We 
are  taught  to  have  just  as  much  knowledge 
as  will  keep  us  ignorant  of  the  world,  and 
be  amusing  to  the  men.  We  are  not 
taught  to  be  earnest,  sincere.  There  is  no 
thought  that  we  must  do  our  share  of  the 
work.  We  are  to  be  effective  as  mere 
ornaments.  From  the  cradle — is  it  not  so  ? 
And  when  we  fade — when  we  grow  old — 


58  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

what  is  our  place  ?  Ladies,  you  know  how 
little  you  are  truly  respected — - 

A  glance  of  anger  from  the  taller  dame, 
but  Isabel  is  mounted  upon  her  fad,  and  as 
other  ladies  gather  about  us,  she  continues: 

"  An  old  woman  now  appears  to  have  no 
place  ;  a  young  one  may  yet  be  able  to  make 
one  for  herself,  if  she  can,  by  being  strong- 
willed,  thinking  for  herself,  studying  that 
which  will  not  make  her  an  ornament  mere 
ly,  but  useful.  Ultimately  I  will  be  .useful 
— now  I  will  be  free.  I  will  be  able  to  go 
as  I  choose,  to  do  as  Ichoose,  to  read  what 
I  choose." 

Horrified  attitude  of  several  ladies  of 
fashion,  who  have  come  up. 

"  And  your  father — the  Count  ?  "  asks  one 
of  them. 

"  He  is  also  liberal — like  myself.  He  sees 
the  future — the  greatness  of  United  Italy — 
the  new  opportunities  of  woman,  as  in  the 
Stati  Uniti.  M.  Burden  will  tell  you  how 
they  lecture,  enter  the  law,  surgery,  den 
tistry,  become  the  apothecaries,  and  invade 
the  political  arena,  in  America.  Is  it  not 
so,  M.  Burden  ?  " 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  59 


I  murmur  a  subdued,  half  regretful,  as 
sent,  and  the  Countess  Isabel  continues  in 
sweet,  rich  voice  to  talk  of  "liberty,"  "the 
revolt  of  the  sex,"  "  the  lesson  of  America," 
"  the  mission  of  woman."  I  freely  confess 
that  while  I  am  outwardly  full  of  the  high 
est  admiration,  not  only  for  the  beautiful 
young  girl  herself,  but  for  her  fine  senti 
ments,  visions  of  a  strong-minded,  spec 
tacled  New  England  school-marm,  who  has 
escaped  from  'her  native  Boston  to  a  Paris 
pension  to  instil  these  ideas  into  her  French 
and  Italian  pupils,  keep  coming  to  my  mind, . 
as  Isabel  pursues  her  flight.  Is  it  possible 
that  one  of  these  arid  reminders  of  New 
England  has  obtained  a  position  in  the 
Ecole  de  la  Ste.  Theodosia,  where,  in  the 
suburbs  of  Paris,  the  young  Countess  has 
passed  the  preceding  three  years  of  her  life  ? 
Certainly  the  emancipation  of  the  young 
girl  appears  to  Isabel  as  worthy  an  enterprise 
in  this  city  of  Venice  as.  that  of  the  negro  for 
merly  in  Virginia.  She  grows  more  radiant, 
more  beautiful  in  her  charming  enthusiasm.- 
For  her  sake,  I  say  to  myself,  mentally,  I 
may  not  deny  myself  my  native  America. 


60  A  Daughter  of    Venice. 

She  talks  of  the  new  regime,  the  energy 
of  the  new  Italy — her  manufactories,  her 
industries,  her  splendid  navy  ;  the  building 
that  is  going  on  at  Naples,  at  Rome.  She 
seems  to  feel  the  new  budding  material  life, 
and  she  fairly  glows  with  her  suppressed 
emotion. 

"  And  what  is  the  destiny  of  Venice  ?  "  I 
ask.  "  Will  you  modernize  Venice  ?  " 

"  Venice  was  the  chief  commercial  city  of 
mediaeval  times,"  she  replies  in  her  au  fait 
school-girl  fashion.  "  It  was  useful  ;  so  it 
shall  be  again.  It  was  the  mart  of  the  East 
and  the  West — not  the  depository  of  art. 
Yes  "  (very  primly,  and  in  her  smooth  Ital 
ian),  "  I  would  have  the  most  beautiful  city 
in  the  world  lose  her  beauty  and  return  to 
her  work  and  to  her  duty.  It  is  very  pleas 
ant  to  me  to  see  that  the  Palazzi  Balbi, 
Ruggieri,  Foscari,  Salviati,  and  many  oth 
ers,  are  now  glass  factories." 

I  raise  my  hand  in  devout  protestation. 

"  I  fancy  you  will  be  pleased  if  St.  Mark's 
is  turned  into  a  blast  furnace,  and  the  Ducal 
Palace  into  a  boiler  shop,"  I  laugh. 

"  What  is  this  '  bias'  furnis,'  M.  Burden  ? " 


A   Daughter  of  Venice.  61 

she  asks  innocently  and  inquiringly,  with 
out  smiling. 

"  You  will  enjoy  seeing  the  smoke  of  in 
dustry  issuing  from  the  Byzantine  domes. 
And  what  then  becomes  of  religion,  Madami- 
gella  ?" 

In  answer  Isabel  simply  shrugs  her  pretty 
shoulders.  A  moment  later  she  says  gaily: 
"  It  is  late  ;  I  must  go.  I  go  to  the  opera,  M. 
Burden  ;  come  with  me,  I  am  quite  afraid  !" 

I  am  not  slow  to  follow,  although  I  am 
sure  that  my  presence  in  Isabel's  gondola 
will  only  bring  consternation  to  her  maid. 

La  Fenice  is  thronged,  as  we  arrive,  with 
the  forestieri,  and  nobili,  and  common  folk, 

who  have  come  to  see  and  hear  A ,  and 

to  talk  through  the  opera  of  Lohengrin.  I 
do  not  hesitate  to  accompany  the  young 
Comtessa  Isabel,  although  I  perceive  that 
she  has  accepted,  with  considerable  bravery, 
another  opportunity  to  get  herself  talked 
about.  I  will  lend  her  all  the  aid  I  can. 
She,  apparently,  enjoys  these  studied  dis 
plays  of  "  liberty."  At  the  little  plaza 
before  the  theatre,  a  crowd  of  officers,  for 
eigners  in  full  dress,  women  with  intense 


62  A  Daughter  of  Venice, 

yellow  hair,  and  "  rapid  "  colored  cheeks, 
are  promenading  to  and  fro  in  the  gaslight. 
There  is  also  the  strong  flavor  of  the  Turk 
ish  cigarette.  As  we  make  our  way  through 
the  crowd  we  receive  a  few  bows,  and  many 
impolite  stares.  Isabel  is  indifferent.  She 
has  been  very  silent  in  the  gondola,  and  it 
would  seem  that  her  mind  is  still  intent 
upon  her  new  regime.  As  we  enter  her 
box  many  lorgnettes  are  turned  upon  us. 
She  stands  a  moment  in  front,  looking 
about  leisurely,  bowing  to  some,  scrutiniz 
ing  others.  It  is  evident  that  she  has  great 
self-possession,  great  courage. 

She  allows  her  white  opera  cloak,  with 
its  lining  of  brilliant  red  satin,  to  fall  back 
ward  over  her  chair,  throwing  into  relief 
her  full  white  figure  in  its  shimmering  ball 
dress.  She  stands  in  a  composed  attitude, 
and  a  momentary  anxiety  seizes  me  lest  she 
is  about  to  make  a  speech  upon  her  "  New 
Italy."  Her  astonishing  indifference  to  the 
public  gaze  is  more  than  amusing.  It  is 
almost  embarrassing.  At  last  she  takes  her 
seat,  and  we  fall  into  conversation  upon 
Wagner's  music.  I  find  that  she  despises 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  63 


Wagner  with  all  the  ardor  of  a  French 
woman,  although  she  is  acquainted  only 
with  Lohengrin.  She  talks  of  Paris — of 
the  rigid,  sombre  Paris  as  seen  from  behind 
the  grated  windows  of  the  Pension  Ste. 
Theodosia,  and  under  the  surveillance  of  a 
very  strict  Mam'selle.  Still  she  admits  to 
me,  en  confidence,  that  she  has  dined  three 
times  at  Bignon's,  and  has  once  been  to  the 
"cirque."  She  plies  me  with  questions 
about  America.  Is  it  true  that  in  many 
States  plurality  of  wives  is  permitted  ? 
Then  why  not,  in  justice,  plenty  of  hus 
bands,  indeed  ?  With  an  innocent  free 
dom,  she  is  about  to  give  me  her  original 
ideas  of  the  marriage  relation,  when  to  my 
relief  there  is  a  knock  at  the  little  door  of 
the  anteroom.  The  Count  Folsogni,  accom 
panied  by  a  bald-headed,  dapper  little  man, 
enters.  I  am  presented  to  Isabel's  father, 
and  to  one  of  her  lovers — M.  Aretier,  the 
artist.  The  Count  gives  me  a  smile  upon 
discovering  that  I  am  from  America,  and 
Isabel  whispers  that  her  father  is  a  great 
student  of  our  Constitution. 

"  I,  for  one,  follow  your  lead,"  he  says ; 


64  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

"  I  believe  in  the  advance.  Italia  has  long 
slept  ;  Italia  awakes  ;  Italia  imitates  your 
free  country." 

But  all  the  while  the  Count's  gray  hair 
seems  to  bristle  rather  stiffly  ;  his  mus- 
tachios  curl  furiously  about  the  corners  of 
the  mouth  ;  he  is  still  the  patrician,  and 
there  is  in  his  strong-willed  face  much  that 
one  sees  in  some  of  the  portraits  of  the  old 
Doges  in  the  Sala  dello  Scrutinio.  I  fancy, 
in  spite  of  his  ultra-liberalism,  the  Count 
Folsogni  is  very  proud  of  his  diamond 
order  upon  the  blue  ribbon  across  his 
breast,  and  that  the  proud  blood  of  the  old 
nobili  flows  still  strong  in  his  veins.  He 
seats  himself  just  behind  his  daughter,  and 
they  converse  in  low,  earnest  tones.  It  ap 
pears  that  M.  Aretier  has  been  making 
some  complaint  of  the  conduct  of  his 
fiancee  to  her  father.  As  the  curtain  rolls 
up  for  the  next  act,  they  cease  whispering, 
and  both  become  absorbed  in  the  story  of 
Elsa  and  Ortrud.  It  is  A at  her  best. 

In  the  entr'acte,  we  stroll  out  into  the 
well-thronged  foyer.  The  Count  takes  my 
arm,  Isabel  that  of  M.  Aretier.  It  is  easy 


THE    OLD    COUNT. 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  65 

to  perceive  that  she  has  added  the  cele 
brated  Frenchman  to  her  train,  largely  by 
way  of  advertisement.  Doubtless  she  will 
seek  to  add  me  in  the  same  way.  Mean 
while  I  listen  with  amused  attention  to  the 
Count. 

"  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  believe,"  he 
says  in  his  rich,  deep  Italian,  "that  it  is 
now  the  custom  in  your  country  for  the 
young  girl  to  engage  herself  to  several  for 
marriage.  I  admit  that  it  enables  the  par 
ties  to  the  ultimate  contract  to  become  the 
better  fitted  to  select — but  it  is  provoca 
tive  of  much  embarrassment.  It  is  not 
easily  understood  how  you  avoid  the  con 
stant  duello." 

I  offer  the  Count  a  cigarette. 

"  It  is  a  custom,"  I  say,  "  which  does  not 
obtain  in  our  better  society."  I  feel  that  I 
must  treat  the  Count  seriously  ;  he  appears 
to  be  quite  in  earnest.  "  It  may  be  com 
mon  in  our  Western  cities — I  have  heard  of 
several  instances — but  it  is  not  a  'cus 
tom.'  " 

"  Not  a  custom  ?  " 

"  When  it  occurs,  it  arises  from  the  fact 
5 


66  A  Daughter  of   Venice. 

that  the  American  girl  is  usually  too  good- 
natured — she  dislikes  to  refuse." 

"Tell  me  —  how  do  they  submit  —  the 
lovers  ?  " 

"  They  remain  in  ignorance.  The  young 
lady  is  too  clever  to  let  them  find  it  out." 

"  Oh— ah." 

"They  do  occasionally  find  it  out,  and 
then  there  comes  a  struggle  to  be  first. 
Sometimes  they  quarrel  - 

"Yes,  yes  —  it  is  well  —  that—  '  he 
muses. 

"  But  the  lover  usually  finds  out  before  he 
commits  himself.  However,"  I  add  lightly, 
"  they  rarely  blame  the  young  lady." 

"  No  ?" 

"People  admire  her  cleverness  —  sne  is 
wicked,  but  clever  ;  her  little  ruse  makes 
charming  gossip  ;  she  is  seldom  blamed — 
and  it  is  all  very  amusing." 

"  It  is  all  very  strange,"  replies  the 
Count,  puffing  away  a  cloud  of  smoke. 
"  The  situation  is  quite  reversed  then — it  is 
the  man's  heart  that  is  broken — it  is  he 
that  is  deserted  ?  I  suppose,  M.  Burden? 
that  you  have  quaint  national  songs  which 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  67 


you  sing,  depicting  the  sad  state  of  the 
betrayed  and  deserted  young  lover  !  "  The 
Count  smiles  gravely. 

"  Women  are  born  coquettes,  the  world 
over,"  I  reply  ;  u  and  men  are  deserted 
every  day  in  Italy  as  well,  and  as  often,  as 
young  women.  The  truth  is,  my  dear 
Count,  the  stories  you  hear  of  America  are 
frequently  exaggerated.  The  customs  of 
people  in  good  society  there  are  the  same 
as  those  of  people  here.  It  is  not  good 
form  for  a  girl  to  engage  herself  to  two  01 
three  men  at  once — but  it  is  a  thing  which 
is  forgiven.  To  be  a  flirt  is  no  sin  in  a 
young  girl  at  home  ;  she  is  given  immense 
freedom  and  opportunity." 

"  I  admire  much  America,"  says  the  Count, 
seriously.  "  I  have  given  much  time  to  the 
study  of  her  institutions.  I  desire  that  we 
shall  sincerely  imitate — that  we  shall  become 
Americanized.  The  '  New  Italy  '  has  already 
begun.  But  these  strange  social  customs — 
I — I — really,  M.  Burden,  you  perceive  that 
I  have  but  one  child — my  daughter — and 
that,  in  her  sincere  efforts  to  imitate  your 
countrywomen,  she  has  promised — it  is  quite 


68  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


true — to  marry  M.  Aretier,  and  the  Count 
Grandino,  two  most  honorable  and  worthy 
gentlemen,  but  they  cling  fondly  to  the  old 
— they  will  not  yield.  M.  Burden,  they 
fight  to-morrow  at  sunrise,  at  Malamocco." 

"  The  duel  is  tabooed  in  America,"  I  in 
terpose. 

The  Count  stares  a  moment. 

"  I  believe  you  mistake,"  he  says  abruptly. 
"I  have  read  to-day,  in  Galignani,  of  two 
duels  between  justices  of  your  higher  courts 
in  the  place — Kentucky.  They  fought  with 
the  shotgun.  In  fact,  I  find  the  duello  com 
mon  news  from  America.  I  am  inclined  to 
refer  it  to  your  custom  for  the  young  girl 
to  make  one — two — three  alliances.  It  is 
not  well,  this.  As  for  Isabel,  she  will  put 
to  the  test  these  new  ideas  ;  but  as  for  me,  I 
am  more  conservative.  I  do  not  go  to  the 
extreme.  It  would  please  me  much,  M. 
Burden,  if  you  would  explain  to  my  daugh 
ter  that  the  better  class  of  society  does  not 
tolerate  the  dual  engagement." 

The  Count  betrays  such  an  air  of  grave 
anxiety,  that  1  ask  :  "You  will  be  present 
at  the  duelling  ground  to  prevent  it  ? " 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  69 

"  I  have  promised  Isabel  that  I  will  not 
interfere,"  he  says,  smiling,  and  there  is  a 
little  pause. 

"Your  daughter  cares  very  little?" 

"  It  is  of  no  moment  ;  she  will  wed  neither 
the  one  nor  the  other — so  it  does  not  con 
cern  her." 

"  But  if  one  is  killed,  she  will  feel  obliged 
to  marry  the  survivor,  will  she  not  ? " 

"Peste/"  he  laughs,  "there  will  be  two 
survivors  at  Malamocco."  And  the  Count 
proceeds  to  remark  upon  the  degeneracy 
and  harmlessness  of  the  modern  duel,  ex 
cept  as  it  obtains  in  America,  and  except  as 
it  involves  the  use  of  shotguns.  He  goes 
so  far  as  to  show  me  a  cut  from  an  Amer 
ican  newspaper,  which  he  carries  in  his 
wallet.  It  is  called  a  Society  Note,  and  is 
as  follows  :  "  We  learn,  with  pleasure,  that 
Miss  Godfrey,  who  was  shot  by  Mr.  Keefe, 
is  to  marry  Mr.  Wenn,  who  killed  her  former 
lover,  last  week.  She  was  able  to  use  her 
revolver  in  target  practice  yesterday." 

"  This  is  American  humor,"  I  laugh,  hand 
ing  back  the  slip. 

The  Count  tries  to  smile. 


70  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


Immediately,  as  we  parade  in  the  long 
line  of  people  in  the  foyer,  Isabel  turns,  and 
I  catch  an  interested  glance  from  her  fine 
eyes. 

"  M.  Burden,"  she  says,  with  a  demure 
air,  "  I  am  not  willing  to  make  two  gentle 
men  quarrel.  Explain,  if  you  please,  to  M. 
Aretier  this  coutume  Americain — -je  men  rap 
port  e  a  vous." 

At  this  the  distinguished  M.  Aretier,  who 
is  a  round,  bald,  little  man  with  a  pom 
pous  dignity  of  manner,  pauses  and  stares 
vaguely  at  me.  He  seems  to  have  little 
appreciation  for  the  new-fangled  American 
social  customs.  He  has  for  me  a  glance  of 
sinister  distrust. 

"  I  tell  M.  Aretier,"  says  Isabel,  and  it  is 
impossible  for  me  to  discover  if  she  is  laugh 
ing,  "  that  in  America  you  have  done  with 
jealousy — is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  We  are  still  human,  even  in  the  States," 
I  say.  "We  are  still  full  of  hate  and  pas 
sion  ;  we  are  no  better  than  the  rest  of  the 
world." 

"No  better,  perhaps/'pursues  Isabel;  "but 
you  have  got  beyond  the  rudimentary  pas- 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  7 1 

sions;  you  find  they  take  time — they  are  vex 
atious — they  impede  business,  M.  Burden  ? " 

"  It  is  impossible  thus  to  ignore  the  com 
mon  attributes  of  the  race,"  observes  M. 
Aretier,  solemnly.  "  I  am  not  wrong  in  de 
ciding  that  America  cannot  hope  to  ignore 
entirely  the  feelings.  Love,  hate,  revenge — 
even  jealousy — have  not  passed  away. 
Non.  The  Comtessa  Isabella  wrongs  her 
self  by  adopting  these  barbarous  theories. 
Believe  me,  the  American  is  still  uncivilized  ; 
he  is  still,  from  his  parentage,  half  Indian, 
half  English.  The  American  demoiselle 
imitates  the  native  squaw  for  her  customs — 
so  called.  It  is  the  freedom  of  the  wig 
wam — of  the  savage." 

"  Eugene  !  "  cries  Isabel,  indignantly, 
with  flashing  eyes. 

"  It  is  astonishing  that  one  brought  up  in 
a  pension  of  Paris  should  acquire  this  taste 
for  savagery,"  continues  M.  Aretier,  grow 
ing  very  red  and  choleric.  "  Are  we  to  take 
our  lesson  from  the  habits  and  customs  of 
American  Indians  of  the  prairies  ?  " 

The  Count  Folsogni  looks  rather  em 
barrassed. 


72  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

"  The  French  truly  cannot  understand," 
says  Isabel,  turning  to  me  with  a  confiding 
air  ;  "  they  can  never  receive  anything  new 
from  outside  of  Paris.  Even  Signor  Gran- 
dino  understands — a  little— at  least  he  is 
too  polite  to  speak  unfeelingly.  But — 
voila — they  fight — I  cannot  prevent  it — it  is 
the  way  of  the  world.  Peste,  they  will  not 
do  themselves  much  harm  !  " 

We  return  to  the  box,  and  Lord  Blandis, 
having  escaped  from  Lady  Gorgon,  enters. 
He  has  also  every  appearance  of  having 
dined  well.  He  is  a  comely,  pink-com- 
plexioned,  blond  youth,  whose  hair,  parted 
accurately  in  the  middle,  is  plastered  down 
with  admirable  neatness  on  either  side  of 
his  head.  Evidently  Isabel  is  a  continual 
source  of  fascinating  interest.  He  leans 
over  to  me  delightedly,  with  : 

"  She  might  have  been  born  in  Boston  !  " 
I  have  it  on  my  tongue  to  say  : 
"  Everything  odd  is  not  American,"  but 
I  change  it  to,  "  You  admire  Americans  ?  " 
"  I   limit  my  admiration  to  one  sex,"  he 
laughs ;  "  and  the  girls  cannot  be  too  Ameri 
can   to   please  me.     It's  because  they  have 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  73 


ideas.  It  seems  odd  that  a  girl  should  have 
them — don't  you  know — it's  a  new  thing — 
and — I — I — like  it." 

Later  we  go  to  the  Palazzo  Regiani.  M. 
Aretier,  with  almost  a  funereal  solemnity, 
takes  his  leave  at  the  landing  stairs.  He 
has  painted  a  glorious  picture  of  Isabel  in 
choppines  in  the  costume  of  the  times  of 
1570-1610.  As  he  departs  he  whispers,  with 
a  pathetic  earnestness,. 

"  Isabella,  Isabella — if  I  am  killed,  it  is 
as  a  royal  Venetian,  not  as  an  Americana, 
that  I  shall  think  of  you  in  the  other 
world  !  " 

She  gives  him  a  pitying  smile,  and  on  his 
departure,  he  is  permitted  to  kiss  her  finger 
tips. 

In  the  salon  of  the  old  Regiani  Palace, 
the  young  girl  holds  for  a  time  a  little  court. 
Many  artists,  many  distinguished  Italians, 
many  literary  men  gather  about  her,  en 
joying  her  sallies,  her  amusing  description  of 
Elsa  whose  hair  came  down  at  the  depart- 
ureof  Lohengrin,  and  there  is  much  laughter, 
too,  at  the  account  of  the  two  elderly  females 
who  undertook  to  "  bait  "  her,  as  she  said, 


74  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

at  the  Casa  Bonifacio.  Partly  in  my  honor, 
American  games  are  introduced,  and  Lord 
Blandis  is  blindfolded,  and  turned  around 
three  times,  holding  a  tail  in  his  outstretched 
hand,  which  he  vainly  endeavors  to  pin 
upon  the  ridiculous  caricature  of  a  donkey 
pinned  upon  the  wall.  There  are  a  number 
of  richly  dressed  Italian  ladies  present,  who 
are  amused  at  Lord  Blandis'  absurd  antics, 
but  who  do  not  appear  to  be  greatly  edified. 
He  boldly  rushes  at  them  with  extended 
arms,  and  they  shriek  in  fright.  He  nearly 
embraces  Isabel,  who  escapes  from  him 
laughing.  At  last  he  pins  his  donkey's  tail 
forlornly  upon  the  wall  upon  the  donkey's 
nose.  Isabel  claps  her  hands  in  glee.  Ah, 
she  is  very  charming  to-night  ! 

Standing  a  little  way  back  is  the  old 
Count,  her  father.  He  wears  a  sort  of 
stage  smile,  which,  as  it  conveys  exactly  the 
opposite  effect  from  that  he  wishes  to  pro 
duce,  gives  him  the  unpleasant  appearance 
of  a  skeleton  at  the  feast.  He  seemed  to 
applaud  Isabel  in  her  extraordinary  Amer 
icanisms — to  applaud  Lord  Blandis.  Yet  I 
feel  that  his  smile  is  not  spontaneous — his 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  75 

applause  is  hollow.  It  would  be  an  odd 
thing  if  the  Count  Folsogni  could  relinquish 
at  his  daughter's  whim  the  stern  parental 
control  of  the  old  Venetian.  Yet  it  seems 
that  he  has  done  this  fully.  She  is  her 
own  mistress — she  may  do  what  she  wills. 
But  her  hand — may  she  finally  bestow  it  as 
she  wills  ?  I  fancy  that  the  old  Count  may 
make  himself  felt  at  such  an  important 
juncture.  It  is  most  laughable  and  trag 
ic — -his  attitude  of  mere  onlooker.  He  is 
waiting — for  what  ?  When  will  he  begin 
to  show  his  claws?  Or  is  he  only  a  fond, 
foolish,  indulgent,  easy-going  father  —  in 
short,  an  American  father  ? 


November  26t/i. 

OR  ten  days,  in 
addition  to 
nightly  attend 
ance  at  the  Pal 
azzo  Regiani,  I 
have,  with  all 
the  fervor  of  a 
true  lover  of 
Venice,  thrown  myself  into  the  art  life 
of  the  old  city.  I  have  renewed  my 
acquaintance  with  the  Accademia,  the 
Scuola  di  San  Rocco,  the  Museo  Conver, 
and  the  Vendramin  ;  I  revisit  the  splendid 
Frari,  the  noble  San  Giovanni  e  Paolo,  and 
San  Sebastiano.  I  find  myself  again  rapt 
urously  delighted  and  charmed  by  the  deli 
cately  subtle  influence  of  the  masters  who 
have  adorned  the  city  for  all  time.  I  read 
again  of  Maletesta,  of  Loredan,  of  Tomaso 
Mocenigo.  I  have  consulted  the  pages  of 
Villehardouin.  And  yet  the  more  I  live  in 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  77 

that  old  life  of  passion  and  splendor  and 
energy,  the  old  Venice  appears  progressive, 
commercial,  money  getting.  To  her,  war 
was  but  an  incident  — St.  Theodore  holds 
his  spear  in  his  left  hand.  In  all  her  pag 
eants,  her  bucentaurs,  her  grand  carnivals, 
Venice  advertised.  All  the  world  came  to 
the  Piazza,  and  poured  its  gold  literally  in 
to  her  coffers.  The  essential  spirit  of  her 
greatest  period  was  not  in  her  art,  but  her  in 
dustries,  and  her  commerce.  I  am  inclined 
to  believe  that  the  Venetians  were  the  Amer 
icans  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  la  Com- 
tessa  Isabella  may,  after  all,  have  inherited 
her  admiration  for  "  independence "  and 
"  industry  "  from  her  patrician  ancestors. 

Isabel  !  In  Aretier's  portrait  she  is  mount 
ed  upon  choppines,  and  is  clothed  in  the  velvet 
and  lace  and  rich  damask  of  a  young  Vene 
tian  lady  of  rank.  He  has  made  her  hair 
fluffy,  and  standing  out  in  the  style  of  that 
time,  and  has  given  her  the  long,  golden 
chains  seen  in  the  old  portraits  by  Titian. 
I  have  but  just  come  from  his  studio  in  the 
Palazzo  Pesaro,  where  he  received  me  with 
a  face  covered  with  sticking  plaster — the 


7  8  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


only  ill  result  of  the  duel — and  told  me  that 
Isabel  had  broken  their  engagement.  As 
the  Count  Grandino  has  been  made  to  sub 
mit  to  the  same  fate,  M.  Aretier  did  not 
appear  to  be  wholly  disconsolate.  He  spoke 
of  the  portrait  : 

"  It  is  in  the  sixteenth  century  I  place 
her,"  he  said  ;  "  full  of  life,  gaiety,  ardor, 
ambition — looking  forward,  expansive.  She 
fancies  that  there  is  a  grand  future  for 
Venice — but  the  West  will  not  look  back 
ward." 

"  It  is  quite  pathetic,"  I  ventured,  "  her 
enthusiasm — her  hopes  for  her  sex — her 
hopes  for  Venice — 

"  It  is  her  youth — her  fine'health.  I  con 
sider  that  she  should  properly  live  in  the 
far  West — in  the  environment  of  the  prai 
ries  of  Chicago." 

"  Or  in  the  time  of  Doge  Nicolo  Da- 
ponte,"  I  suggested. 

Our  eyes  met. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  La  Charmante 
Bianca  di  Cappello,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
thought  of  her  also,  and  I  confess  that  I 
have  imitated  the  dress  she  wears  in  the 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  79 


fine  old  Tintoretto  in  the  splendid  collec 
tion  of  the  Duke  A .  Yes,  Bianca 

readily  occurs  to  one  as  he  beholds  the 
Comtessa  Isabella.  She  was  the  most  beau 
tiful  woman  of  her  time — she  was  passion 
ate — wilful — charming — 

"She  outwitted  her  father." 

"Ah,  there  the  comparison  ends.  Isabel 
will  never  outwit  her  father." 

"  You  regard  the  Count  Folsogni  as  a  very 
shrewd  man  ?  " 

"  Un  homme  terrible,  my  dear  sir  ;  he  has 
a  dreadful  history — that  rather  mild-man 
nered  man.  He  has  killed  three  men  in 
duels.  He  is  subtle.  I  have  heard  the  Prince 
d'X.  speak  of  him.  He  has  the  deep  indi 
rectness  of  an  old  nobile  combined  with 
unusual  will  power.  At  present,  I  hear  he 
is  very  much  in  debt." 

"  And  is  there  a  Countess  Folsogni  ? " 

M.  Aretier  shrugged  his  shoulders  ;  then 
he  said,  after  a  little  pause  : 

"  She  is  never  seen — on  view.  Perhaps 
they  have  determined  that  she,  too,  shall  be 
a  truly  American  mother."  M.  Aretier  was 
no  longer  solemn  ;  he  gave  a  short  laugh. 


8o  A  Daughter  of   Venice. 

"  You  have  a  grudge  against  my  country," 
I  laughed,  "  and  very  naturally." 

Again  the  versatile  artist  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  I  left  him  with  the  impression 
that  he  was  glad,  on  the  whole,  in  spite  of 
his  sticking-plasters,  to  be  well  out  of  an 
entanglement.  He  had  fallen  and  wor 
shipped  at  the  shrine  of  Isabel  ;  he  had 
painted  a  very  charming  portrait  of  her. 
He  would  now  turn  pleasantly  to  something 
else.  He  has  survived  his  "  emotion  "  of 
the  young  Countess.  He  was  cheerful — he 
was  no  longer  solemn — a  Frenchman. 

I  left  M.  Aretier  with  the  additional  feel 
ing  that  it  was  somewhat  disagreeable  of 
him  to  have  painted  the  young  girl  in 
Bianca's  costume. 

I  stroll  across  the  Piazza,  and  happen 
upon  Count  Folsogni  at  Florian's.  I  fre 
quently  meet  him  at  this  little  cafe  of  an 
afternoon.  He  is,  as  usual,  deeply  engrossed 
in  an  old  copy  of  the  New  York  Herald.  I 
regret  to  say  it  happens  to  be  a  presidential 
year,  and  the  American  newspaper  succeeds 
from  week  to  week  in  involving  the  Count 
in  a  series  of  mild  dilemmas.  He  is  at  a 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  81 


loss  to  discover  the  distinctions  of  party. 
He  has  been  a  student  of  American  politics 
for  several  years,  he  tells  me,  as  I  draw 
near,  and  he  asks  me  to  explain  for  him — 
he  is  so  dull — so  bete — the  policy  to  be 
adopted  by  one  or  the  other  party,  should 
it  attain  success  at  the  polls.  He  draws 
from  an  inner  pocket  two  newspaper  slips, 
which,  he  tells  me,  are  the  two  "  pronuncia- 
mientos  "  of  the  Democrats  and  the  Repub 
licans.  I  recognize  them  as  "  platforms." 
I  read  them  over  cursorily,  and  they  appear 
to  be  identical.  There  is  much  about  "re 
form"  in  both  ;  they  each  "point  with  pride 
to  the  past  ;  "  and  there  are  the  same  glit 
tering  generalities. 

"  I  have  little  time  to  explain  the  dis 
tinctions  of  party,"  I  say  ;  "  it  is  a  matter 
of  history.  Suffice  it  to  say,  one  of  these 
great  parties  has  given  the  franchise  to  the 
negro,  and  the  other  has  advocated  a  re 
duction  of  the  enormous  tariff  imposed 
upon  foreign  goods." 

The    Count    bows    gravely,    and    I    am 
aware   that  my  words  have  conveyed  little 
meaning. 
6 


82  A  Da ug liter  of   Venice. 


"  I  consider  politics  as  of  very  little 
moment  in  our  country."  1  say  ;  "  as  a 
rule,  too,  the  better  class  of  citizens  are 
not  interested  largely." 

He  rolls  up  his  heavy  eyebrows  in  won 
der,  and  there  seems  to  be  a  tacit  uiuLr- 
standing  that  we  will  pursue  the  subject 
no  farther. 

"Your  social  life,"  says  the  Count,  after 
a  short  pause,  taking  a  sip  of  his  cafe  noir, 
"  it  presents  also  some  difficulties.  I  read 
to-day  of  several  bold  murders,  of  two 
family  feuds,  of  many  divorce  scandals.  It 
appears  that  in  the  city  of  Tennessee  two 
families  have  chosen  to  annihilate  the  one 
the  other  ;  in  another  place,  Arkansas,  two 
gentlemen  shoot  with  the  revolver  at  dinner, 
and  a  lady  is  accidentally  killed.  It  is  very 
marvellous  this,  your  internal  social  life." 

"  The  press  mistake  these  crimes  for 
news,"  I  say,  parenthetically,  suppressing 
my  amusement. 

"  Your  criminal  class  must  be  large  and 
important,"  pursues  the  Count  meditatively; 
"  it  appears  that  your  statesmen  pay  much 
respect  to  them." 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  83 

"  They  are  voters,"  I  laugh. 

"  Ah,  yes,  the  vote,  it  is  all  important. 
There  are  many  outcries  against  bribery. 
I  read  in  one  instance  that  it  is  a  question 
whether  a  certain  statesman  will  enter 
the  hall  of  your  Congress  or  the  State's 
prison.  It  is  very  strange  to  the  student 
of  your  institutions.  Sometimes  I  have 
much  of  doubt.  Perhaps  there  is  still 
something  of  good  in  our  elder  civilization 
— yes  ?  " 

Has  the  Count,  then,  a  fund  of  pleasant 
irony,  mingled  with  his  apparent  interest 
in  America  ? 

During  the  last  few  days,  I  have  been 
frequently  to  the  American  evenings  at  the 
Palazzo  Regiani,  and  have  observed  the 
taciturn  nobile,  standing  a  little  at  one 
side,  watching  with  an  air  of  studious  in 
terest,  of  curious  expectancy,  these  first  in 
roads  of  Isabel's  new  civilization.  At  these 
times  his  face  has  never  betrayed  the 
slightest  feeling.  If  his  lips  moved  it  was 
to  pay  me  some  flattering  compliment  for 
my  country  ;  to  speak  of  Washington,  of 
Lafayette,  of  Lincoln.  He  was  even  willing 


84  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

one  night  to  take  a  hand  at  draw  poker, 
but  I  never  saw  him  engage  himself  but 
that  once.  It  was  as  a  student  and  philos 
opher  that  Count  Folsogni  posed.  One 
may  have  observed  much  the  same  im 
perturbable  expression  upon  the  face  of  a 
professor  of  vivisection. 

At  several  of  these  affairs  there  has  been 
present  a  young  Venetian,  the  son  of  a 
rich  merchant,  named  Ferati,  whose  pres 
ence,  it  seemed  to  me,  gave  the  Count  con 
siderable  uneasiness.  Ferati  entered  very 
energetically  into  the  American  ideas.  He 
was  always  ready  with  a  very  flowery  and 
superlative  oration  upon  "  the  equality — 
the  lesson  of  the  West."  He  was  likewise 
useful  to  Isabel  in  sustaining  some  of  her 
idealities  with  a  flimsy  fabric  of  argument. 
An  reste,  he  is  a  rather  handsome,  frank,  fat, 
open-faced  young  Italian,  who  wears  his 
beard,  and  his  patent  leather  shoes,  to  a 
fine  Parisian  point.  It  is  evident  that  the 
young  plebeian  is  a  very  aggravated  ex 
ample  of  an  unpleasant  Americanism  to  the 
Count,  and  he  seems  to  shower  his  favors 
upon  me  by  way  of  contrast. 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  85 


Signore  Ferati  is  fond  of  reciting  Amer 
ican  poetry,  and  he  is  fondest  of  all  of 
Bret  Harte.  There  are  other  ambitious 
young  Italians  at  these  gatherings,  who  be 
long  to  Isabel's  cult,  and  who  cannot  speak 
of  Longfellow  without  rolling  up  their  eyes. 
I  can  never  forget  how  one  of  these  gentle 
men  recited  to  a  hushed  audience  one  even 
ing  : 

"  Ze  Pislam  offaleefa," 

and  beginning, 

"  Telia  me  note  in  moornfu"  noombra 
Leefe  isa  butta  eedel  darim,"  etc. 

Some  of  these  Americo-maniacs  are  highly 
educated.  Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that 
the  greater  student  of  language  a  man  is 
the  less  his  ear  catches  the  sound.  Signore 
Ferati  is  only  too  fond  of  these  recitations. 
He  has  a  rich  baritone  voice.  He  declaims 
Alfieri  very  well,  but  he  has  no  ear  for 
English.  Last  night  he  gave  us  Bret 
Harte.  It  was  quite  impossible  for  me  to 
remember  the  gravity  of  the  occasion. 
Signor  Ferati,  recitativo : 


A  Daughter  of   Venice. 


A    PLAN    LANGAVEECH    FROMA     TROOTFUL 
ZSHAMS. 

"  Veechy  veech  ta  ramarque 

Onta  mi  langaveech  ista  plan 
Zat  fo'  vays  zat  ara  daarka 

Onta  fo'  dreeks  zat  ara  van 
Ze  'ethan  kine  ista  paycoola, 

Veech  ze  sama  ee  voda  rise  t'  eggsplan. 

"  Aseena  vas  sa  nam — 

Onta  ee  salna  dena 
In  rayquarda  t'  ze  sam 

Vat  zat  nam  mita  ampli 
Butta  ees  'meel — eetvas  ponseeve  onta  cheeldlika 

'Z  frequant  ramarque  ta  Beel  Nee." 

Great  applause,  clapping  of  hands,  and 
laughter,  although  it  was  difficult  for  me, 
who  knew  the  famous  verses  by  heart,  to 
understand  what  was  said.  A  few  Italians 
who  spoke  "  ze  Inglese  "  might  have 
gathered  the  meaning  of  the  words,  but 
they  could  hardly  have  proved  humorous. 
It  was  largely  out  of  politeness,  therefore, 
that  the  applause  became  deafening  as 
Ferati  went  on  and  finished  : — 


A   Daughter  of  Venice.  87 

"  Ecu  's  slivas  veech  vare  langue 

He  hadda  vcnta-fora  pacque 
Veech  vas  becomina  strang, 

Ah  yet  ee  stata  butta  ze  fat, 
Onta  ve  foun'  on  's  nail  veech  vare  tapa, 

Vat  ees  frayquanta  in  tapu — zat  's  vax  ! 

"  Veechy  veech  ta  ramarque 

Onta  mi  langaveech  ista  plan 
Zat  fo'  vays  zat  ara  daarka 

Onta  fo'  dreeks  zat  ara  van 
Ze  'than  kine  ista  paycoola, 

Veech  ze  sama  ee  voda  rise  t'  eggsplan." 

These  American  nights  !  The  memory 
of  them  is  delicious  to  me— not  from  what 
was  said  and  done,  but  from  the  exquisite 
grace  and  charm  of  Isabel.  It  is  she  to 
whom,  as  our  queen,  all  homage  and  all 
affection  in  three  languages,  was  due,  and 
to  whom  it  was  paid. 

As  we  sit  to-day  at  Florian's,  and  I  am 
considering  how  exactly  to  test  the  Count's 
sincerity,  Ferati  passes  along  the  arcade. 
Immediately  the  Count  frowns,  as  I  bow  to 
the  young  man. 

"  Perhaps  my  daughter  goes  too  far  in 
her  Americanisms,"  he  says  shortly;  "but 
we  stand  committee! — we  may  not  go  back. 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


Our  friends,  the  Venetians,  will  laugh  only 
the  more." 

"  Go  the  whole  distance  !  "  I  cry,  smitten 
with  sudden,  strange  excitement,  as  well  as 
he,  at  the  appearance  of  Ferati.  "  Let  me, 
an  American,  gain  your  consent,  your  inter 
cession  with  your  daughter." 

"  Ah,"  he  replies,  studying  me  for  a  whole 
minute,  "  that  is  Isabel'!'-  affair,  not  mine." 

"  I  wish  at  least  your  permission." 

"  It  is  nothing  to  me."  And  Count  Fol- 
sogni  smiles  bitterly  as  he  folds  his  arms  in 
resignation. 

"  You— her  father  ?  " 

"  Of  course — precisely."  And  he  twirls 
his  long  black  moustachios  with  a  discon 
solate  air. 

"  You  have,  then,  in  American  fashion, 
given  up  all  control  of  Isabel  ?  " 

The  Count  merely  shrugs  his  shoulders  ; 
then,  leaning  forward  with  a  frank  expres 
sion,  he  says  : 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  my  dear  M. 
Burden,  I  am  not  entirely  content  with  this 
new  American  system  ;  it  has  certain  errors, 
and  it  has  certain  gains.  I  am  told  that 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  89 

by  this  system  I  give  no  dowry.  Bien!  a 
dowry  is  an  impossibility  with  me.  I  am 
told  that  I  am  required  to  give  my  blessing 
only.  Yes,  so  far,  I  will  act  to  the  letter 
the  American  father.  But  since  I  may  not 
forbid  a  marriage,  I  may  not  permit  it !  " 
There  was  a  short  pause.  "  I  am  not  the 
master.  I  have  abdicated  to  my  daughter. 
She  may  select  the  husband  at  her  leisure  ; 
any  one,  even  Ferati." 

He  rises  from  the  table  as  he  speaks,  and 
fairly  hisses  out  the  name  of  the  young 
merchant. 

"  There  was  Grandino,"  he  goes  on, 
"  rich,  noble,  much  in  love,  so  that  they 
tell  me  he  now  consoles  himself  by  a  jour 
ney  into  the  cold  and  forbidding  climate  of 
England.  There  was  Aretier,  rich,  a  man 
of  celebrity.  There  was  before  them,  Cava- 
lazzi,  a  noble  of  Padua.  My  Isabel  aston 
ished  and  amazed  them  all  by  her  beauty  ; 
and,  finally,  my  dear  Sir  Burden,  you,  an 
American,  come  forward.  Sir,  I  esteem  this 
last  favor  a  profound  honor." 

The  Count  bows  very  low,  and  again  I 
am  puzzled  as  to  his  sincerity.  I  note  that 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


he  has  not  mentioned  the  name  of  Lord 
Blandis  as  a  suitor  for  his  daughter's  hand  ; 
yet  the  Englishman  has  been  constantly  at 
her  side. 

"  You  give  me  your  permission  to — to — 
try?" 

"  Of  what  use  ?  "  and  he  raises  his  eye 
brows. 

As  we  stroll  away  from  Florian's  a  little 
later,  I  am  tempted  to  consign  my  native 
country  and  all  of  its  customs  to  perdition. 
It  might  seem  that  my  nationality  would 
be  of  consummate  advantage  if  it  is  true, 
as  I  at  last  frankly  confess  to  myself,  I  am 
infatuated  with  this  charming  young  Vene 
tian.  I  will  give  her  the  opportunity  to 
thus  lastingly  carry  her  ideas  into  practice 
— to  become  an  American  in  fact.  Her 
behavior  to  me  of  late,  when  not  delight 
fully  confidential,  has  been  characterized 
by  the  easy  gaiety,  and  even  flippancy,  of 
a  younger  sister.  Sometimes  she  has  re 
spected  my  opinion  too  much  ;  sometimes 
she  has  openly  laughed  at  me.  Not  many 
nights  ago  she  amused  herself  by  pro 
nouncing  me  a  living  embodiment  of  old 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  91 

Francesco  Foscari.     "You   care  for   me!" 
she  laughed  ;  "  you  care  only  for  Venice." 

We  make  our  way  past  Miinster's  book 
store,  and  glance  through  the  open  door. 
There,  holding  an  English  Tauchnitz  open 
in  her  hand,  is  Isabel.  She  is  alone,  and 
she  looks  to-day  demure  and  sweet.  She 
wears  a  long,  conventional  English  cloak 
and  cape.  Her  hat  is  quite  masculine,  but 
the  face  beneath  it  appears  to  have  a  tem 
porary  lack  of  daring.  As  she  glances  at 
her  father,  her  eyes  are  full  of  a  beseeching 
entreaty. 

"  We  return  to  the  Palazzo  Regiani,"  says 
the  Count,  not  unkindly. 

"  It  is  early  ;  Signore  Ferati  will  call  here 
for  me." 

"  Signore  Ferati — Signore  Ferati  ?  "  the 
Count  frowns  fiercely. 

Instantly  Isabel  bristles  a  little. 

"  You  have  chosen  to  make  it  disagreeable 
for  him  at  the  Palazzo  Regiani,"  she  says. 

"  He  is — bourgeois."  It  is  the  worst  he 
can  say. 

She  turns  her  back  upon  her  father,  with 


92  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


a  swift  girlish  indignation.  It  is  the 
thoughtless  bird-like  motion  of  a  wilful 
child. 

"  Isabella,"  and  the  Count's  voice  is  full 
of  protest,  "  I  have  not  interfered — you 
have  your  way." 

"  Non — but  it  is  the  same.  We  meet 
here  in  future."  And  she  appears  to  brace 
herself  very  firmly  with  her  back  toward  us. 

The  Count  strides  out  of  the  bookstore 
hurriedly.  He  gives  me  a  quick  glance  ; 
it  is  as  if  he  said  :  "  I  end  this  American 
foolishness  at  once." 

But  Isabel  only  deigns  to  smile. 

"  A  child,"  she  laughs  lightly,  turning  to 
me,  while  the  aged  servitor  of  the  shop  dis 
appears  behind  a  pile  of  freshly  invoiced 
French  novels.  "  He  is  full  of  whims.  See 
how  he  permits  himself  to  be  enraged.  It 
is  not  that  I  care  that  for  Signore  Ferati," 
and  she  makes  a  quick  little  gesture  with 
her  book. 

"  Explain  to  your  father,  and  to  me  then," 
I  say,  with  a  lover's  secret  gladness. 

"You?"  She  gives  me  a  questioning 
glance. 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  93 


"  Yes,  I  confess  that  I,  too,  am  interested 
in  you,  Madam  :gella." 

"  Oui,  I  am  a  part  of  your  beloved  Ven 
ice." 

u  You,  for  yourself,"  I  insist  warmly,  as 
our  eyes  meet. 

She  bursts  out  laughing,  at  which  the 
aged  servitor  looks  up  feebly,  and  pushes 
his  brass  spectacles  high  up  upon  his  fore 
head.  Impulsively  she  gives  me  her  hand. 

"  Mistake  not,  dear  friend,  that  I  do  not 
feel  honored,"  she  says  caressingly;  "but 
I  am  interested  in  no  one — I  care  for  the 
new  advance.  It  is  all  to  me." 

I  cannot  doubt  her  sincerity.  She  lays 
aside  her  book,  and  continues. 

"  This  love  is  all  very  amusing — it  is  even 
ridiculous — one  reads  so  much  of  it.  But  it 
is  so  entirely  foreign  to  our  real  lives.  I 
grow  tired  of  the  continual  romance.  Must 
we  be  thus  forever  falling  in  love  ?  M.  Bur 
den,  at  your  age,  at  least,  one  becomes  inter 
ested  in  serious  matters." 

I  am  hardly  prepared  to  be  lectured,  but 
I  am  mute  as  she  goes  on. 

"  There  is  so  much  to  do.     The  world  is 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


so  full.  It  is  for  us  cultivated  ones  to  lead 
the  way.  You  in  America  have  become  our 
instructors.  You,  M.  Burden,  know  much 
that  you  can  tell  me  about.  I  would  sit  at 
your  feet  as  St.  Paul  at  the  feet  of  Gama 
liel.  Yet  you  come  to  me,  and  from  your 
sad  expression  I  discover  that  you,  too, 
would  make  love.  Oh,  my  friend,  it  is  so 
tiresome — so  unpleasant  !  The  men  seem 
to  me  so  devoted  to  this  idling  that  one  is 
apt  to  despise  them.  It  seems  that  English 
men  are  less  disposed  to  make  this  thing 
— love  ;  they  hesitate  to  commit  them 
selves  ;  they  are  much  more  dignified.  Yes, 
I  confess  I  like  their  blunt  manner  toward 
women  ;  it  is  better  than  this  mawkish  atti 
tude  of  false  worship  of  most  of  you  [laugh 
ing]  Venetians  ;  this  appearance  of  devout 
respect,  which  is  insincere  ;  this  affectation 
of  taking  us  seriously,  when  you  know  you 
do  not  give  us  your  best  ideas,  and  you  do 
not  respect  us  even.  You  reserve  for  the 
smoking-room  your  real  selves.  I  have  ob 
served  several  Americans — yes  it  is  quite 
true,  even  of  them." 

"  You,  as  well   as  your  father,  have  dis- 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  95 

covered  that  there  is  room  for  criticism,"  I 
say,  smiling  at  her  vehemence  and  her  lofty 
tone,  "concerning  America." 

"  Not  in  the  great  things  ;  not  in  matters 
of  moment.  Oh  !  M.  Burden,"  she  sud 
denly  breaks  out,  "  how  I  long  to  meet  and 
talk  with  one  of  your  really  great  states 
men — a  member  of  the  Congress  !  " 

At  this  moment  the  young  Signore  Ferati 
enters.  He  wears  a  bell-shaped  Italian  silk 
hat,  a  brilliant  necktie,  a  rather  conspic 
uous  watchchain  with  many  charms.  He  is 
dressed  in  the  clothes  of  an  Italian  tailor 
who  receives  his  patterns  and  fashion  plates 
from  London.  There  is  a  comical  exag 
geration  of  the  Bond  Street  trousers  and 
the  Bond  Street  cut-away.  Signore  Ferati 
twirls  a  slender  cane  of  ebony  in  his  well- 
gloved  hand.  He  bows  ceremoniously  to 
the  Countess  Isabel.  He  shakes  hands 
with  me  in  a  hearty  English  manner,  the 
elbows  well  up.  There  is  a  spruce,  alert  air, 
about  this  young  man,  which  taken  together 
with  his  commonplace,  matter-of-fact  ap 
pearance,  probably  typifies  to  the  young 
girl  the  "  new  "  citizen  of  Venice  she  affect? 


f)6  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

It  is  evident  that  in  Signore  Ferati  she  has 
discovered  an  energy,  a  spirit  of  business 
enterprise,  a  contempt  for  the  past,  which 
satisfies  her.  To  me,  as  I  remark  his 
robust,  fat  face,  with  its  pointed  beard,  it 
seems  that  he  may  have  a  truly  grocer's 
mind,  and  but  little  else.  His  eyes  are 
small  and  full  of  petty  cunning.  Evidently 
he  sees  considerable  glory  in  being  tempo 
rarily  associated  with  the  already  famous 
young  beauty.  It  is  an  association,  how 
ever,  about  which  the  Count,  her  father, 
need  not,  I  believe,  be  in  the  least  anxious. 

It  is  suggested  that  we  embark  in  a  gon 
dola,  and  that  Signore  Ferati  describe  for 
my  benefit  some  of  the  proposed  improve 
ments  in  Venice,  which,  he  says,  can  be  more 
easily  pointed  out  from  the  water  front. 
We  stroll  across  the  Piazza,  and  Isabel  bows 
with  easy  nonchalance  to  a  party  of  young 
Englishmen.  It  is  Lord  Blandis  and  his 
friends.  I  fancy  I  overhear  them  saying, 
and  Lord  Blandis  resenting  it,  as  we  pass, 

"  She  has  now  a  second  set  of  lovers,  in 
the  true  American  style  !  " 

The  sun  breaks  out  of  a  huge  bank  of 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  97 

clouds  as  we  embark  at  the  landing  stairs 
of  the  Piazzetta.  The  Redentore  across  the 
water  is  bathed  in  the  most  fantastic  ethe 
real  light.  As  we  swing  out  into  the  tide, 
the  Doge's  Palace,  the  efflorescent  carving 
of  the  Library,  the  domes  of  St.  Mark's, 
become  suddenly,  in  the  intense  irradiation, 
more  than  "  a  dream  of  beauty."  It  is  at 
this  unpropitious  moment  as  we  float  along 
theGiudecca,  past  some  rich-colored  Chiog- 
gian  fishing  boats,  that  Signore  Ferati  pro 
ceeds  to  unroll  a  map  which  he  has  carried 
in  an  inner  pocket. 

"  This  is  the  old — the  past — "  he  waves 
his  hand  to  the  glittering  domes  ;  "  this  is 
the  new — the  future,"  and  he  points  to  his 
map. 

It  may  be  remarked  of  Signore  Ferati,  as 
of  many  Italian  men  of  business,  that  he 
makes  abundant  use  of  "designs,"  and  "ele 
vations,"  that  he  talks  and  gestures  very 
much  with  the  pencil.  The  future  Venice 
as  laid  out  by  Signore  Ferati,  will  hardly 
please  Mr.  Ruskin. 

"  We  make  of  Venice,"  he  says,  with  his 
eyes  upon  the  calm,  approving  face  of  Isa- 
7 


9  8  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


bel,  "  a  great  centre  of  commerce.  For 
merly,  this  was  so,  but  in  the  devotion  to  art 
we  have  forgotten  ourselves.  We  now  come 
to  our  senses.  Art  is  not  the  chief  thing — 
it  is  the  least  thing.  In  our  foolish  love  of 
art  we  have  witnessed  the  splendid  growth 
of  England  which  is  without  art,  and  of 
America  which  despises  it.  While  we  have 
been  dreaming  of  the  'beautiful  '  [Signore 
Ferati  seems  to  speak  of  the  Italy  of  a  good 
half  dozen  centuries  ago]  other  nationali 
ties  have  sprung  up  and  overtopped  us. 
We  now  be  practical — we  awake.  Is  it  not 
so,  Signorina  ? " 

Isabel  nods;  her  eyes  are  fixed  on  the 
gorgeous  picture  of  golden  San  Giorgio 
Maggiore  rising  from  the  water  in  the  dis 
tance,  like  some  fateful  warning  vision,  as 
Ferati  continues. 

"  The  palaces  of  the  canalazzi  we,  of  the 
new  republic,  will  make  to  become  valuable 
warehouses.  As  for  the  Piazza,  we  enlarge 
it  a  little.  We  have  need  of  additional 
wharfage,  Signore  Burden.  The  Piazzetta 
shall  be  extended,  thus,  as  in  the  design. 
We  have  what  you  call  a  pier  ;  we  have  also 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  99 


in  place  of  St.  Mark's  a  grain  elevator  ware 
house  of  ten  stories." 

"  The  people  will  have  work — not  wor 
ship,"  chimes  in  Isabel.  "  There  will  be  no 
need  of  the  church,  no  need  of  priests,  no 
need  of  monks  and  convents.  I  burn  to  see 
the  new  Venice — a  busy  hive  of  industry." 

"  Observe  upon  the  map,"  continues  Sign- 
ore  Ferati,  pointing,  "  the  American  dock, 
the  German  dock,  the  English  dock.  By 
adding  but  two  stories  to  the  Ducal  Palace, 
we  have  a  suitable  storage  warehouse.  Ob 
serve  my  railway  around  the  entire  city. 
Ultimately,  perhaps,  we  pump  out  the  canals 
by  means  of  hydraulic  rams,  and  we  shall 
have  excellent  streets.  We  introduce  the 
tramcar.  Venice  shall  not  always  labor 
under  the  disadvantage  of  slow  waterways. 
Here  in  the  Public  Garden,  we  establish 
a  huge  foundry  of  iron.  We  shall,  also, 
devote  our  attention  to  shipbuilding — 

"  Is  it  not  fine  ?  "  interrupts  Isabel,  look 
ing  at  me  expectantly  and  with  unaffected 
enthusiasm. 

"  I  shall  value  the  opinion  of  Signore 
Burden  ;  he  is  an  American,"  says  Signore 


ioo  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

Ferati.  "  I  have  already  discussed  the  mat 
ter  with  a  gentleman  from  America  whom  I 
met  at  the  Hotel  Beau  Rivage — Signore 
Ramsay,  of  Chicago.  It  was  he  who  pro 
posed  the  stock  company  with  a  capital  of 
fifty  millions,"  he  adds,  turning  to  Isabel. 

"I  trust  the  day  will  never  come  when 
Venice  shall  become  wholly  industrious,"  I 
rejoin,  amused. 

"  Is  it  then  possible  that  we  find  an  un 
practical  American  ?  "  asked  the  young  mer 
chant,  raising  his  eyebrows  and  regarding 
me  with  renewed  interest. 

"I  see  too  much  at  home  of  this  eternal 
'  industry,'  "  I  say  ;  "  I  long  to  escape  it. 
Business,  carried  too  far,  causes  a  lack  of 
interest  in  one's  government,  in  morals,  in 
religion,  in  everything  good  and  ennobling. 
I  attribute  to  too  great  attention  to  indus 
try,  which  you  applaud  so  much,  the  fact 
that  our  American  cities  are  ruled  by 
thieves — yes,  that  we  are  very  badly  gov 
erned." 

"  Signore  Burden  delights  in  paradox," 
says  Ferati,  politely,  turning  to  Isabel  with 
a  smile. 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


"  What  you  say  reminds  me  of  the  in 
verted  fairy  stories  of  'Behind  the  Looking 
Glass';  to  dream  of  such  sacrilege  is  most 
absurdly,  childishly  Philistine." 

"But  the  end  must  come  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Venice  is  dying  now,  and  her  end 
will  come  with  her  years.  But  she  is  dying 
in  all  the  changing  colors  of  a  beautiful  sea 
animal.  If  you  must  have  your  commerce 
and  your  industries,  come  West  with  me — 
how  soon  you  will  return  !  " 

Isabel  leans  back  on  her  cushions  and 
sighs. 

"  When  I  think  of  these  things  as  they 
are,  I  am  bitterly  unhappy,"  she  says,  point 
ing  to  the  Piazza.  "  I  wish  to  see  Venice  as 
she  was.  I  wish  to  see  the  new  regime  of 
action.  You  deny  me  this,  M.  Burden. 
Signore  Ferati,  tell  me  that  what  you  plan 
is  feasible." 

"  Let  only  the  nobili  yield  to  the  popu 
lar  will,"  he  says  very  gravely  ;  "  it  is,  after 
all,  the  aristocrats  who  impede." 

"  But  many  yield.  My  father  would 
give  up  the  old  regime." 

"  I    fear    that    Count    Folsogni    deceives 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


himself,"  says  the  glib  young  Italian,  with 
a  smile. 

She  lets  her  eyes  fall. 

"  I  know  that  my  father  tries  very  hard 
to  join  the  new  movement,  hut  it  is  quite 
impossible  for  him  to  forget  that  he  is  a 
Venetian  nobile.  Some  of  us  feel  com 
pelled  to  forget  that,  Signore  Ferati." 

The  latter  reddens  at  this  little  femi 
nine  thrust. 

"  I  am  glad  I  am  of  the  people,"  he  says 
simply,  with  a  quiet  air,  at  which  the  fair 
young  Countess  gazes  upon  him  a  moment 
admiringly. 

We  return  to  the  Piazzetta,  after  an  hour's 
floating  on  the  tide,  which  sweeps  slowly 
out  past  the  Lido.  Signore  Ferati  leaves  us 
at  the  Molo,  and  the  Countess  Isabel  and 
I  enter  St.  Mark's  just  at  sunset  ;  she  is 
entirely  careless  of  the  fact  that  she  is  with 
out  a  chaperone,  indifferent  to  the  gossip  of 
the  Venetians. 

The  dusky  gloom  of  the  vast  interior  is 
filled  with  incense.  The  many  candles  on 
the  altar  throw  out  a  soft  yellow  glow,  and 
give  a  rich  tone  to  the  purple-robed  priests 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  103 

who  are  standing  within  the  rail.  As  many 
as  fifty  wretched,  ill-clothed  poverini  are 
kneeling  on  the  cold,  uneven  floor,  enjoy 
ing  their  sole  visi-on  of  daily  warmth.  An 
organ,  much  out  of  tune,  wails  out  a  dis 
mal  chant  ;  now  and  then  it  utters  an 
unearthly  shriek.  It,  too,  like  the  mendi 
cants,  appears  to  be  old  and  forlorn,  and 
should  have  been  at  rest  long  ago.  Far 
up  in  the  three  Byzantine  domes  some 
flickering  sunbeams  enter,  giving  them  an 
effect  of  vast  height.  All  is  shadowy,  un 
real  ;  saturated  with  the  musty  odor  of 
mediaeval  history,  dim  with  the  dense  life 
of  the  dead  ;  carrying  one  back  by  a  sud 
den  breath  to  pre-Christian  times.  It  is  a 
surprising  thing  to  see  the  conventional 
saints  and  holy  fathers  blazed  in  the  glass 
mosaic  against  the  golden  domes.  One 
expects  here  the  Greek  gods.  The  Pan 
theon  is  not  more  ancient  than  these  grimy 
pilasters  of  alabaster — than  this  screen  of 
weathered  bronze — than  these  faded  and 
discolored  sculptures.  It  is  not  strange 
that  the  effect  of  this  Christian  church  is 
distinctly  pagan,  if  not  barbarian. 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


"  Come,  let  us  go,"  whispers  Isabel,  in 
Italian  ;  "  I  never  liked  it — I  never  could 
bear  to  remain  a  moment  in  it.  A  common 
tomb  is  a  ballroom  compared  with  it. 
Come,  I  can  hardly  breathe  in  this  incense. 
Signore  Ferati  is  quite  right  ;  we  must 
destroy  this  dreadful  reminder  that  the 
old  Venice  is  dead." 

There  is  a  little  pause. 

"  One  may  not  revive  it,"  I  say  at  length. 
She  is  silent. 

"  If  you  wish  for  life,  activity,  the  dis 
play  of  energy,  turmoil,  noise,  and  strife, 
come  away,  leave  Venice  forever  ;  come  to 
the  West  with  me,  Isabel  !  You  know  what 
I  mean."  I  am  half  laughing,  yet  entirely 
serious. 

AVe  have  walked  a  little  way  since  I  said 
these  words,  down  one  of  the  dark  side 
aisles.  Near  us  is  a  chapel,  the  altar  of 
which  is  covered  with  dusty  mediaeval 
treasures  and  votive  offerings.  A  wire 
screen  prevents  the  casual  visitor  from  mak 
ing  away  with  the  gold  and  silver  cups  and 
candelabra,  now  rusty  and  dingy  with  four 
centuries.  Before  the  altar  burns  a  solitary 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  105 

lamp  night  and  day.  A  red  globe  surrounds 
the  flame  and  permits  a  soft  warm  glow  to 
fall  upon  the  patrician  face  of  the  young 
Countess.  She  stands  for  a  moment  just 
beneath.  She  is  tall  and  sweet,  and  for 
the  time  the  inexpressible  sense  of  life  and 
of  animation,  which  usually  radiates  from 
her,  has  succumbed  to  the  sombre  tone  of 
the  ancient  church.  The  deeper  poetry  of 
renunciation  has  entered  her  soul  to  tarry 
there  for  an  instant.  It  is  as  if  the  affect 
ing  and  essential  merit  and  meaning  of 
Christianity  has  awed  her  into  reverence. 
It  is  but  momentary,  however.  She  soon 
turns,  and  walks  rapidly  out. 

In  the  fresh  open  air  of  the  Piazza  she 
says  with  her  old  smile,  as  I  catch  up  with 
her, 

"  Remember,  I  am  an  American." 

"  Yes,"  I  say,  puzzled. 

"I  am  free — I  may  choose,  myself." 

"  Certainly,  and  being  free  to  choose, 
Isabel — 

"  But  in  America,  from  the  novels  at 
least,  it  appears  that  this  thing,  love,  is 
still  quite  necessary,  is  it  not  so  ?  " 


1 06  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


"  Yes,  undoubtedly.  This  thing,  love — " 
Her  eyes  rest  upon  mine  with  a  peculiar 
sense  of  compassion.  She  comes  up  to  me, 
and  her  hand,  the  hand  I  have  once  clasped, 
lies  lightly  on  my  arm.  It  trembles,  and  is 
lifted.  For  a  moment  or  two  I  am  silent, 
and  in  doubt  of  her  meaning.  There  is  a 
subtle  air  about  Isabel  to-day  which  tells 
two  stories.  She  seems  to  be  groping  about 
upon  untried  territory.  At  all  events,  love 
is  something  entirely  new  to  her,  and  I  am 
in  a  quandary  whether  to  accept  her  atti 
tude  as  a  final  answer  of  refusal,  or  whether 
she  wishes  to  learn  more  about  this  love, 
this  un-Italian,  intellectual  form  of  it,  which 
is  so  new  to  her.  As  I  stand  there,  Cow- 
ley's  pretty  fragment  occurs  to  me  : 

"  Love  in  her  sunny  eyes  does  basking  play, 

Love  walks  the  pleasant  mazes  of  her  hair ; 
Love  does  on  both  her  lips  forever  stray 

And  sows  and  reaps  a  thousand  kisses  there. 
In  all  her  outward  parts  Love's  always  seen, 
But,  oh,  he  so  far,  never  goes  within  !  " 

"  Love,"  I  cry  out  laughing  ;  "  there  is  no 
such  thing  !  " 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  107 

She  looks  at  me  more  coldly. 

"  I  do  not  marry  without  love,"  she  says 
very  calmly  ;  then  adds, 

"  You  are  not  a  true  American,  M.  Bur 
den." 

"A  true  American  has  so  little  time  for 
a  grande  passion"  I  say. 

"  Yes  ?  "  with  an  air  of  surprise. 

"  We  are  rather  inclined  to  despise  it." 

"Oh." 

"  As  a  true  American,  you,  too,  may  des 
pise  it  also." 

"  I  cannot,  I  cannot,"  she  cries  with  a 
strange  emotion  ;  "  I  have  tried." 

She  looks  down,  and  avoids  my  glance. 
She  stands  a  moment  before  the  glittering 
shop  windows  of  the  Arcade  in  deep  maiden 
meditation. 

"  My  dear  friend,  it  seems  that  you  are 
wrong.  A  true  American  must  love  once, 
truly,  forever — and  I  can  only  reason  this 
from  perfect  freedom.  Is  it  not  so  that 
you  are  so  un-American  and  ignorant  of 
your  real  opportunities  ?  Is  this  thing,  love, 
to  be  despised,  as  you  despise  so  much 


io8  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

in  your  great  country  ?  No,  no,  it  is  with 
you  a  strange  reaction." 

Then  after  a  pause  she  says,  laughing, 
and  showing  her  pretty  white  teeth, 

"  But  I  confess,  I  am  very  ignorant." 


November  2&th. 

DAY  has  passed 
during  which  I 
have  made  no 
attempt  to  see 
Isabel.  I  have 
tried  to  bury 
myself  in  my 
notes  on  Gol- 
doni  ;  I  confess 

they  seem  very  stupid  ;  I  have  occasion 
frequently  to  use  the  blue  pencil  ;  I  de 
test  (ioldoni's  humor,  too,  greatly  ;  his 
plays  appear  too  childish,  too  immature. 
Xelida  e  Lindoro  is  better  •  Baruffe  Chioz- 
/.otte  is  his  best. 

I, ate  in  the  afternoon  I  am  on  my  way 
across  the  Piazza  when  I  see  her  again  at 
Minister's  with  her  father.  As  I  approach 
he  bows  and  ceremoniously  departs.  Isa 
bel's  manner  is  kind  to-day.  She  is  superior. 
She  will  lecture  a  little.  Now  that  I  have 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


made  an  avowal  and  have  been  quietly  re 
fused,  we  are  on  a  better  footing. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  she  says  meditatively, 
"  that  all  I  hold  most  dear,  you  hold  in 
disesteem.  It  is  as  if  you  had  had  a  surfeit 
of  success  in  your  country.  You  appear 
to  tire  of  your  'material  progress.'  Per 
haps  you  have  become  bored  by  it.  You 
are  wearied  with  people — the  people,  in 
the  first  place  ;  then  with  your  new  brick 
and  mortar,  your  new  buildings,  new 
bridges,  new  towns,  yes,  I  can  feel  that  I 
partly  understand  you.  But,  as  we  pass 
on,  I  cannot  perceive  clearly  from  whence 
you  derive  your  antipathies.  They  are  not 
born  in  you,  M.  Burden  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  my  father  was  a  great 
patriot,"  I  reply.  "  He  lost  his  life  in  our 
Civil  War.  Do  not  try  to  account  for  me, 
Isabel.  I  am  what  they  call  of  '  the  new 
generation.' "  And  I  laugh  rather  dis 
mally. 

"  I  know,"  she  says  gently,  "  I  know  that 
if  another  war  arises  that  you — yes,  you — 
would  also  willingly  die  for  your  country." 

"  You  pay  me  a  splendid  compliment." 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


"  It  is  what  I  read  in  all — in  many  Anglo- 
Saxons.  It  seems  an  amusing  affectation 
to  despise  what  your  fathers  have  struggled 
through  so  many  years  to  obtain.  You 
affect  to  deplore  what  every  one  but  you 
admires.  It  is  the  English  trait,  and  yours. 
I  have  known  several  English  artists  who 
possess  it.  They,  indeed,  despise  England  ! 
Oh,  you  are  alike  !  When  a  war  comes 
and  your  States  or  your  England  is  threat 
ened,  you  calmly  go  to  the  battle  and  end 
your  lives  if  necessary  in  defence  of  what 
you  despise.  But  you  are  growing  now  a 
little  too  refined — to  outsiders  you  make  a 
pretence."  And  she  laughs  teasingly. 

We  have  now  come  to  a  dark,  narrow 
little  calle,  which,  after  several  turns,  leads 
us  over  innumerable  bridges  to  the  Palazzo 
Regiani.  As  we  walk  on,  the  young  Count 
ess  becomes  suddenly  gay,  and  unexpectedly 
greatly  animated.  It  is  her  buoyant  youth 
which  asserts  itself  again.  She  advances 
and  retreats  playfully  ;  she  dances  along 
the  unfrequented  calle,  singing  an  opera  air 
with  a  childish  freedom  and  abandon.  I 
follow  her  gravely  ;  it  would  appear  that 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


she  is  indifferent  enough  to  ignore  the  pain 
she  has  given  me.  She  whirls  about  on  one 
foot,  and  laughs  merrily  at  my  astonish 
ment.  She  has  now  all  the  freakish  play 
fulness  of  a  young  kitten.  She  has  ceased 
to  use  her  head — to  think.  She  comes  run 
ning  up  to  me  breathlessly  with  a  pretty 
air,  and  says,  in  English  : 

"  Forgive  me,  my  sir,  will  you  ?  But  I 
must  be  thus  foolish  ;  when  I  am  at  the 
Palazzo  I  can  be  the  more  calm.  It  is  not 
permitted  for  me  to  sport  there  much,  and 
here,  as  there  is  no  one,  I  sport."  And 
with  that  she  dances  away  again,  laughing. 

And  it  is  this  picture  of  the  Countess 
Isabel  which  remains  impressed  upon  my 
mind  most  lastingly  when  I  am  away  from 
her.  A  dark  calle,  mysterious  doorways,  a 
high  wall  ;  the  tall  young  girl,  of  a  charm 
ing,  lissome  figure,  with  a  face  radiant  with 
beauty,  full  of  laughter,  gracefully  turning, 
dancing  along  the  pavement  like  some  wild 
young  animal,  half  tamed,  every  motion 
exquisitely  graceful,  natural,  full  of  fire.  I 
stand  watching  her,  wonderingly.  At  last 
she  comes  to  me,  saying  : 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  113 


"  There  ;  now  I  can  walk  like  a  Chris 
tian  !  " 

It  appears  that  she  had  given  to  her  play 
fulness  but  a  brief  opportunity  after  all. 
For  the  rest  of  our  journey  she  hardly  says 
a  word  ;  she  becomes  silent  and  distrait. 
We  arrive  shortly  at  the  great  iron  gateway 
of  the  Palazzo,  which  slowly  opens  at  my 
ring. 

As  the  servant  closes  it,  Isabel  turns  and 
gives  me  a  half  mocking,  half  earnest 
glance.  The  iron  gate  creaks  and  swings 
to.  I  catch  a  last  glimpse  of  a  jewelled 
hand  throwing  me  a  kiss,  and  I  hear  a  sweet 
voice  calling  : 

"  Buona  notte,  Signer e  il  Doge  !  " 


November  ysth. 

UONA   notte,   Si- 

gnore  il  Doge  !  " 
I  still  hear  her 
rich  contralto 
voice,  filling 
that  abysmal 
calle  and  rever 
berating  far  out 
across  the  Grand  Canal.  Her  English  is 
half  French  ;  her  French,  half  Italian.  I 
cannot  describe  in  cold  ink  the  witchery, 
the  charm,  the  grace  of  her  every  move 
ment.  I  have  been  writing  stupid  letters 
all  day  long.  I  can  only  think  of  Isabel 
and  of  Venice,  for  Isabel  is  Venice  at  the 
height  of  its  glory  before,  as  is  said,  "  Her 
art  began  to  cast  a  beautiful  sunset  over 
her  decline."  There  appears  no  weakness, 
no  sense  of  decline  in  her.  Power,  audacity, 
beauty  is  stamped  on  her  every  feature. 
She  commands,  and  is  obeyed.  She  is 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


queenly,  tall,  dominant.     She  is  truly  like 
an  American  girl  ! 

Seeing  her,  I  can  only  think  of  the  Ve 
netians  returning  from  conquest — at  the 
height  of  their  commercial  supremacy — the 
Turks  conquered,  the  nations  paying  trib 
ute.  Do  not  France,  Italy,  England  and 
America  prostrate  themselves  at  Isabel's 
feet?  (I'm  not  sure  that  Austria  may  not 
be  included  ;  there  is  a  certain  Count  Ra- 
vetski  who  appears  occasionally,  I'm  told, 
on  the  horizon,  and  again  passes  out  of 
sight.)  So,  once,  all  nations  revered,  wor 
shipped  and  feared  the  name  of  her  native 
city.  It  is  pathetic  to  realize  how  in  her 
enthusiasm  she  has  revivified  that  old, 
proud,  conquering  type  of  energy — a  nobile 
of  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century.  There 
was  faith  and  youth  and  enthusiasm  then, 
such  as  she  feels.  Yes,  Venice  then,  in  its 
glory,  was  American. 

But  what  am  I  that  I  should  dare  ?  Love 
has  come  to  me  unbidden,  at  an  age  when 
reason  has  cooled  the  brain.  I  thought,  if 
I  loved  at  all,  it  would  be  some  beautiful 


1 1 6  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

creation  of  art.  But  here  is  a  creature  who 
is  artless  !  Who  lives  and  breathes  and  is  ! 
I  loved  my  sister,  she  was  taken  from  me  ; 
my  heart  was  torn  a  long  time.  ...  I 
am  surprised  that  Isabel  has  so  easily  taken 
possession. 

How  does  this  dazzling  creature  regard 
me  ?  She  sometimes  says  to  me  playfully 
that  I  am  the  modern  sad  Venice,  if  she 
personates,  as  I  insist,  the  gay  Venice  of  the 
fifteenth  century. 

"  Be  a  Venetian  like  Loredan,  like  Moce- 
nigo,  like  Carmagnola,  the  glorious,"  she 
often  says  to  me  ;  "  yes,  even  like  Othello, 
the  Moor." 

Then  she  will  let  her  shapely  head  fall 
on  one  side  quizzically,  and  dreamily  half- 
close  her  eyes.  It  is  evident  that  I  am  old, 
very  old,  to  this  gay  young  creature. 

I  rise  and  study  myself  in  my  long  cheval 
glass.  I  am  tall  and  pale,  my  dark  beard 
is  pointed  in  Paris  fashion — but  I  am  not 
so  old.  Truly,  I  do  not  appear  so. 

I  recall  many  other  expressions,  which  I 
have  not  till  now  considered.  "  You  would 
greatly  improve  yourself,  sir,  by  wearing 


A  Daughter  of   Venice.  117 


this  pretty  costume  on  the  days  of  Enrigo," 
or  one  (lay,  "  Where  have  you  been — at  the 
Accademia  ?  but  you  should  have  been  at 
tending  the  siege  of  Constantinople  !  "  and 
again,  ''  I  would  like  to  see,  M.  Burden,  a 
slight  imitation  of  the  fire  of  passion — of 
the  love  of  those  past  days,  in  you  ;  "  and 
again,  "  You  admire  the  royal  days  of 
Venice  in  )Tour  speech  only  —  you  will 
never  live  them." 

Would  this  wild  creature  have  me  carry 
her  off  some  misty  night  in  a  gondola,  vi  et 
artnis?  Does  she  wish  me  then  to  scale  her 
window  with  a  rope  ladder  ?  She  speaks 
coldly  enough  of  "  This  thing,  love."  She 
wishes  me  to  rouse  her,  to  overwhelm  her 
with  passion — with  consuming  fire. 

The  long  velvet  curtains  hang  together 
in  most  mournful  solemnity  in  the  windows 
of  the  palazzo  across  the  narrow  calle.  The 
hotel  I  am  occupying  was  formerly  itself  a 
great  palace,  and  in  days  gone  by  it  is  not 
improbable  that  the  upper  windows  were 
joined  by  a  slender  bridge.  Such  bridges 
of  rope,  from  palace  to  palace,  are  men 
tioned  often  in  Villehadranim,  the  historian. 


1 1 8  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

Would  that  I  could  span  that  little  space, 
high  above  the  calle  !  To  what  end  ?  Ah, 
my  heart,  to  plead  like  a  mediaeval  Othello, 
with  all  the  passion  in  my  soul,  for  a  little 
of  this  thing — love  ! 

I  stand  in  my  window  mentally  willing  that 
Isabel  shall  come  and  pull  aside  the  curtains, 
that  I  may  call  over  to  her,  and  swear  I  will 
throw  myself  into  the  canal,  or  do  some 
foolish  thing  if  she  will  not  love  me.  I  own 
I  am  twice  a  fool  for  this,  for  she  has  re 
fused  me  more  than  once,  in  definite  words. 

I  stand  there  a  moment,  longing  to  see 
those  dark  curtains  divide  and  her  laughing 
face  show  itself  between  them. 

Ah  !  The  curtain  does  divide,  but  the 
Count,  her  father,  stands  there.  He  gravely 
bows  to  me.  He  is  dressed  in  a  rather  youth 
ful  appearing  uniform,  and  wears  a  cocked 
hat  surmounted  by  many  feathers.  He  pre 
sents  an  odd  appearance,  and  I  can  hardly 
prevent  myself  from  smiling  at  this  warlike 
apparition. 

He  opens  a  casement  at  the  side  of  his 
window,  and  I  open  mine.  We  can  easily 
talk  across. 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  119 

"  I  did  not  know  we  were  such  neighbors," 
says  the  Count,  taking  off  his  chapeau. 
"  Where  your  hotel  is,  was  once  the  Palazzo 
Confrari.  General  d'Hilliers  lived  a  month 
there  in  1797." 

Answering  my  look  of  interest  at  his  uni 
form,  he  says,  "  It  is  an  anniversary  of 
Sadowa — a  fete  of  the  departure  of  the 
Austrians." 

As  it  grows  late,  I  suggest  a  cafe  noir  at 
Florian's,  and  I  stroll  down  there  presently 
• — it  is  not  far  from  my  hotel — rather  mar 
velling  at  his  continued  appearance  of 
friendliness. 

Count  Folsogni  is  not  long  in  joining 
me  at  a  little  table.  He  has  a  copy  of 
the  Herald,  and  also  Galignani,  in  his  hand. 
He  is  still  in  his  uniform.  His  face  is 
clouded.  "A  friend  who  is  posted,  has  just 
informed  me  of  very  grave  news  —  and 
news  which  doubtless  will  affect  you,  my 
dear  Sir  Burden.  Sir,  you  have  my  sym 
pathy." 

He  spreads  out  the  Herald  on  the  table 
"  In  this  war  with  England,  which  must  en 
sue •" 


I2O  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

"  War  with  England  ? "  I  read  the  scare- 
heads — 

"FISHERIES    WAR    ON    THE    NEW 
FOUNDLAND    BANKS!" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Count,  they  won't  go  to 
war,  I  think ' 

"  But  read,  my  sir  ;  it  is  that  England  is 
vituperative — and  do  you  read  these  words 
relative  to  twisting  the  tail  of  the  British 
lion  ?  Sir,  no  country  in  the  world  can  re 
main  quiet  after  such  insults  have  passed  !  " 

The  Count  glares  at  me,  as  if  to  inquire 
what  my  mild  sentiments  can  possibly 
mean,  after  hearing  of  the  enormities  Eng 
land  is  perpetrating  at  the  banks  of  New 
foundland  upon  innocent  American  fisher 
men.  Being  now  an  "  American  "  forsooth, 
the  scare-heads  of  the  American  paper  have 
really  given  this  student  of  republican  ideas 
a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour. 

"£  Vero !  They  merely  quarrel  every 
year  this  way —  I  laugh.  "  It  is  noth 
ing." 

"  But,  is  it  that  your  government  cares 
not  for  insult  ?  " 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  121 


"  Well,  you  see,  it  isn't  considered  im 
portant."  I  am  at  a  loss  to  explain. 

"  And  they  care  not  that  the  British  ves 
sel  fires  a  shot  at  their  flag  ?" 

"  Well — you  see — my  dear  sir " 

"  Then— I  am  clone  with  this  United 
States  !  "  he  cries  angrily.  "  It  has  no 
sense  of  honor.  There  should  be  a  grand 
war,  M.  Burden.  You  should  go  home — 
you  should  bravely  lead  a  regiment,  as  did 
your  father,  as  my  daughter  has  informed 
me.  Ah,  perhaps  then  affairs  might  ar 
range  themselves  differently.  ...  I  ad 
vise  you,  Sir  Burden,  to  go  at  once  to  the 
seat  of  war.  Be  -brave — return  to  Venice  a 
general." 

Imagine  my  instantly  starting  for  the 
bleak  coasts  of  Newfoundland  !  I  find 
that  I  seriously  affront  the  father  of  Isabel 
by  my  hilarity  at  this  suggestion.  He 
scowls,  knits  his  brows,  twirls  his  fierce 
moustachios.  I  hasten  to  pacify  him.  I  order 
some  absinthe — it  is  what  he  likes.  After 
we  separate,  I  reflect  upon  his  words.  Is 
he  really  friendly  to  me  ?  Then  why  does 
he  urge  me  so  to  depart  from  Venice  ?  He 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


must  be  too  astute  to  seriously  try  to  per 
suade  me  to  interest  myself  in  this  fishery 
dispute — but  he  wishes  me  to  absent  my 
self  for  a  time?  I  feel  sure  that  it  is  so. 

In  answering  this  query  in  the  affirma 
tive,  the  placid,  fat,  handsome  face  of 
Lord  Blandis,  whose  enormous  wealth  is 
known,  rises  before  me.  The  young  Eng 
lish  peer  has,  it  is  said,  completely  thrown 
off  the  yoke  of  Lady  Gorgon.  That  she 
has  become  alarmed  and  written  to  his 
mother  in  England,  is  more  than  probable, 
since  within  a  day  or  two  several  members 
of  his  family  have  appeared  upon  the  scene. 
He  has  been  constantly  at  the  Palazzo 
Regiani.  He  has  had  his  opportunities  to 
make  an  avowal.  I  have  suspected  that 
the  Count  strongly  favors  the  pretensions 
of  this  young  man. 

In  every  way,  I  acknowledge  his  superi 
ority  over  me  as  a  suitor  for  Isabel.  He 
is  young — his  family  one  of  the  greatest  in 
England.  He  is  in  full  command  of  his 
fortune.  I  am  in  every  way  his  opposite. 
I  feel  old,  I  have  passed  through  sorrow. 
I  have  a  little  money — not  much.  He  has 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  123 

his  castles.  In  every  way  for  her  sake,  it 
would  be  better  that  she  should  become 
Lady  Blandis.  She  could  do  more  for 
Italy — for  Venice.  She  might  be  able  to 
carry  out  a  few  of  her  plans  to  make  Ven 
ice  still  great. 

As  I  write  in  my  diary,  with  the  sunlight 
streaming  in  across  my  page,  it  is  clear,  it 
is  evident,  that  if  I  love  sincerely  this 
glorious  creature,  I  will  quietly  take  my 
self  away.  If  I  remain,  I  cannot  control 
myself.  I  will  see  her  again — annoy  her. 
I  will  leave  Venice  !  Leave  the 
musty  MSS.  in  the  Old  Library.  Leave 
her  !  Yes,  it  is  best.  Alfred,  I  am 

sure,  will  think  me  vacillating,  but  I  will  go 
to  Florence  and — make  notes — there.  Some 
day  Isabel  will  understand  why  1  go  away. 
She  will  appreciate  my  less  passionate  but 
more  self-sacrificing  "  American  "  love. 

I  think  she  has  really  formed  no  theory 
of  love  but  one — the  mediaeval — -the  chival- 
ric.  It  must  be  frenetic — hectic — passion 
ate.  There  must  be  the  wildest  raptures, 
the  most  desperate  situations.  Alas  !  I 
can  only  love  her  devotedly,  simply — like 


124 


A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


a  plain  common  man.  I  fancy  she  would 
prefer,  at  least,  a  little  more  sound  and 
fury. 

She  saw  Salvini's  Othello  at  Milan,  two 
years  ago,  and  she  received  an  impression 
which  she  does  not  readily  relinquish.  It 
was  thus  that  she  would  like  to  be  loved  ; 
madly,  cruelly,  say  by  some  passionate 
tenore !  Isabel  is  but  a  sweet  imaginative 
schoolgirl.  She  is  inexperienced.  She  is 
still  a  Venetian  ! 


A    GONDOUKR, 


December  nth. 

HAVE  not  gone 
away.  I  have 
remained,  tast 
ing  day  by  day 
the  quiet  mel 
ancholy  of  the 
old  city,  which 
has  sympa 
thized  with  me  and  harmonized  with  my 
own.  Modern  Venice  is  balm  to  a  disap 
pointed  lover.  I  heartily  recommend  it  as 
a  solace  to  all  such  ! 

When  one  does  not  marry  at  twenty-five, 
he  runs  along  sometimes  to  the  end  of  the 
thirties.  These  are  a  man's  two  dangerous 
periods.  A  woman  may  have  him  at  these 
times,  at  twenty-one  and  thirty-five. 

We  made  up  a  jolly  party  to  the  Lido, 
yesterday.  Lord  Blandis,  her  father  and 
Isabel  went  over  in  a  gondola  together. 


126  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

At  the  landing  she  allowed  me  to  join  her, 
and  we  walked  across  to  the  beach  together. 
There  were  a  number  of  people — a  large 
woman  with  Lady  Gorgon  proved  to  be 
Lord  Blandis' aunt,  Lady  Harrow.  They  had 
procured  some  rather  ancient  clams  some 
where,  and  I  was  to  show  them  an  American 
clambake.  The  day  was  warm,  like  October. 
Isabel  gave  me  her  thick  sacque,  and  raised 
her  sun-umbrella.  Afterward  we  were  all 
to  dine  on  board  the  Euterpe,  Lord  Blandis' 
yacht,  and  there  was  to  follow  a  moon 
light  sail.  The  sail  had  been  planned  for 
the  night  before,  but  had  been  given  up 
because  of  the  cold.  Yesterday  the  Adri 
atic  was  calm  and  deeply  blue.  The  golden 
white-yellow  sun  flooded  the  atmosphere 
with  prismatic  light.  Isabel,  in  her  little 
London  hat,  her  boa,  her  close-fitting 
habit,  presented  all  the  glories  of  the 
winter's  fashions.  But  her  eyes  were  all 
the  time  fastened  on  the  distant  Alps. 

Her  face  was  pale — preoccupied.  "  Tell 
me  what  to  do  ? "  it  seemed  to  ask.  We 
walked  side  by  side  along  the  avenue  of 
trees  for  a  few  moments  before  she  said  : 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  127 


"  A  woman — even  in  America — must  attain 
her  end  through  marriage  !  " 

"  No — it  is  not  necessary,"  I  replied. 

"  She  studies — she  leads — she  ignores  her 
sex — she  is  respected  ? " 

"  Certainly.  There  are  colleges  in  the 
West  where  women  study  professions  like 
men  ;  where  it  is  the  fashion  to  regard 
only  the  intelligence — the  intellect.  She  is 
there  the  equal  of  man." 

"  There,  in  the  West,  love — this  curious 
thing,  love — is  wholly  discarded  ?" 

"  Yes,  among  those  who  enter  the  pro 
fessions — 

"  It  is  not  actually  necessary  to  life,  M. 
Burden  ?"  She  looked  at  me  timidly. 

I  replied  with  a  laugh,  "  No.  For  a 
woman,  who  always  gets  the  worst  of  the 
bargain,  it  is  entirely  unnecessary." 

"  For  a  man  ?  " 

"  A  man  rarely  loves." 

She  gave  me  a  quick  furtive  glance,  as  if 
she  would  have  said  :  "  Are  you  then  this 
rara  avis,  as  you'd  have  me  believe  ?  " 

Walking  with  several  Venetian  gentle 
men  beneath  the  willows,  Signore  Ferati, 


i2<S  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


in  distinctly  yellow  kid  gloves,  approaches. 
He  is  to-day  unusually  rubicund  and  well 
groomed.  He  has  been  lunching  with  his 
friends  at  the  Lido  restaurant  on  the  shore. 
They  have  had  several  bottles  of  French 
champagne.  He  is  all  politeness.  I  would 
like  this  young  Venetian  better  if  he  had 
less  of  the  air  of  a  commercial  traveller. 
I  judge  his  friends  are  buyers  of  glass  from 
Milan  or  Florence.  They,  too,  are  fat  and 
bourgeois. 

Isabel  bows  coldly,  and  looks  intently  at 
her  Alps.  "  E  Vero!  He  has  only  the  soul 
of  a  pig  !  "  she  murmurs,  dismissing  him. 

"  He  loves,"  I  suggested,  as  if  that  at 
least  condoned  a  little. 

"Bah  \-Dio!" 

"  A  good  deal  of  the  American  in  Ferati, 
too.  He  would  see  that  the  larder  was 
well  stocked.  A  good  family  man — what 
we  call  a  good  '  provider' — his  wife  will  be 
at  least  comfortable " 

"  I  beg  you  to  desist,  M.  Burden  !  " 

Isabel's  eyes  were  flashing  with  anger. 

We  walked  by  willow  trees  which  hung 
their  long  branches  until  they  caressed  her 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  129 


hat.  She  reached  and  pulled  a  long  streamer 
down  but  could  not  break  it ;  it  vexed  her 
still  further.  "  Signore  Ferati  is  nothing, 
Aretier  is  nothing,  Grandino  is  nothing — 
Lord  Blandis  is  nothing  ;  all  men  are  fools  !  " 
she  exclaimed,  turning  and  walking  away 
from  me  quickly,  and  then  standing  still, 
with  a  repentant  air.  "  Do  you  see  the 
gulls  ?  "  she  asked,  pointing. 

"Yes." 

"  They  are  like  the  souls  of  women,  rest 
less,  restless — 

"  Always  fishing  !  "  I  laughed. 

"  And  catching  nothing  !  Ah  !  M.  Bur 
den,  we  Venetians  hold  love  to  be  some 
thing  to  be  repressed — concealed  ;  our  fam 
ily  is  more,  our  city,  our  state.  I  don't 
know — is  love  then  universal  among  those 
not  studying  to  learn  in  America  ?  Is  love 
desired  above  family  ?  above  wealth  ?  Tell 
me " 

As  she  seemed  to  wait  to  hear  me  dis 
course  upon  this,  to  her,  novel  subject  of 
love,  I  said,  gravely,  "  Love  and  marriage 
are  not  considered  antipodal  in  my  country. 
But  if  by  love  is  meant  infatuation,  it  is  not 

9 


130  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


deemed  desirable.  They  say,  I  believe,  that 
this  latter  always  dies  out  in  a  man  after 
possession,  but  does  not  die  out  so  soon  in 
a  woman.  But  the  love  which  is  partly 
love  of  temperance,  home,  honor,  children, 
— and  all  the  virtues — this  we  have  most 
commonly.  This  is  the  American  love 
which  wears — there  is  equality  in  this." 

"  But  how  does  it  begin  ?  " 

"  Propinquity — 

"  Not  infatuation  ?" 

"  I  think  not." 

"  No,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "  naturally 
not.  Very  well,  I  like  it  better.  Yet — 
yet —  A  crimson  flush  overspread  her 

beautiful  face.  I  read  her,  and  she  saw  she 
was  read,  and  laughed. 

How  I  could  then  and  there  have  taken 
this  sweetest  of  the  sweet,  most  glorious  of 
glorious  girls  in  my  arms  !  Did  she  pant 
for  early  mediaeval  passion  ?  I  would  have 
covered  her  lips,  her  throat  with  the  wild 
est,  insanest  kisses  ! 

How  that  white  shining  necklace  of  snowy 
Alps  across  the  Adriatic  caught  her  two 
eyes  that  day  !  These  pearls  above  the 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  1 3 1 


blue  sea  fascinated  her,  Venice  rising  with 
her  "  tiara  of  towers,"  the  long  lagunes,  the 
magnificent  Santo  Giorgio  Maggiore — held 
her  not. 

She  was  looking  toward  my  country.  She 
was  very  near  to  me.  Every  thought,  I 
seemed  to  share. 

As  we  walked  along  the  shore,  she,  some 
times  silent  a  moment,  then  talking  briskly 
in  her  pretty,  clearly  enunciated  French, 
digging  her  parasol  in  the  sand,  and  con 
fiding  a  little — hesitating — quivering  like 
some  pretty  bird,  I  felt — I  knew  she  was 
near  to  me,  my  own  ! 

The  chain  of  white,  glistening,  Alpine 
pearls  meant  America. 

The  little  Countess  Cologni  soon  came 
running  up  with,  "  My  God  !  but  you  two 
will  walk  as  if  you  were  willing  the  Lido  be 
twenty  miles  long."  Again  Isabel  blushes. 
I  read  that  romance  still  held  the  heart  of 
this  Venetian  girl.  She  would  secretly 
love  to  be  loved,  but  not,  necessarily,  with 
all  the  furor  and  protestation,  all  the  ex 
travagance  of  an  operatic  bravo.  She  may 
be  content,  even,  with  mine. 


132  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


At  the  beach  I  endeavored  to  amuse  the 
party  of  English  and  Italians  with  an  at 
tempt  at  an  American  clambake.  My  efforts 
were  not  regarded  with  much  favor.  I 
regret  to  say  that  I  did  not  cover  my  coun 
try  with  honor.  To  the  fishermen,  servants, 
and  gondolier!  who  assisted  me  were  soon 
given  the  unsavory  clams.  Afterward, 
Lord  Blandis  wandered  away  along  the 
shore  with  Isabel.  He  returned  alone  after 
an  hour,  looking  distressed  and  saying  that 
she  had  gone  back  to  the  landing  direct. 
He  appeared  much  agitated,  and,  I  hear, 
left  Venice  last  night  on  his  yacht  for  Con 
stantinople.  The  sail  was  given  up.  The 
dinner  was  a  forlorn  affair. 

Through  all  the  twelve  courses  on  the 
Euterpe,  Count  Folsogni's  face  was  a  study 
of  carefully  concealed  anger.  He  said  little. 
He  was  studiously  polite.  He  did  not  look 
exactly  malignant — but  I  felt  him.  I  was 
in  his  way.  I  had  done  him  an  injury. 

In  all  chance  conversations  1  have  had 
at  receptions,  dances,  Accademia  parties,  at 
Florian's  or  in  the  foyer  of  the  opera 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  133 


house,  with  the  young  Lord  Blandis,  I  have 
failed  to  notice  any  especial  sign  of  intel 
ligence,  which,  should  he  eventually  marry 
the  fair  Venetian  girl,  would  tend  to  make 
their  double  journey  in  life  a  satisfactory 
one.  It  would  mean  for  Isabel,  I  fear,  a 
life  of  terrible  ennui.  I  have  noted  his 
expressions  concerning  her.  The  fellow  is 
undoubtedly  very  much  in  love — infatuated 
in  his  English  way.  How  soon  his  love 
would  die — in  a  year — in  a  month  ! 

Here  is  what  he  said  :  "  Awfully  clever 
girl,  bah  Jove  !  She's  caught  on  to  Amer 
ica — as  many  of  our  girls  have.  Thinks 
just  as  I  do,  bah  Jove  !  Likes  to  say  and 
do  as  she  likes.  Burden,  she's  got  you  down 
fine.  She  even  hates  England  !  " 

"  It  would  be  then  a  more  subtle  affecta 
tion  of  Americanism  for  Isabel  to  imitate 
the  Anglomaniacs,"  I  replied. 

Love — day  by  day,  hour  after  hour,  in 
sickness  and  in  health,  in  youth  and  old  age, 
in  joy  and  sorrow.  This  shallow  hand 
some  blond  young  Englishman  knows  it 
not.  Not  that  Isabel  would  not  compel  it 
even  from  him  for  a  long  time  after  marriage. 


134  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

But  there  would  come  a  wretched  time,  when 
she  would  say  to  her  heart,  "  I  am  dead  " — 
and  to  life,  "  It  is  but  a  wearisome  vanity 
of  vanities." 

I  do  not  say  that  Lord  Blandis  is  not  a 
"  good  fellow."  His  friends  are  many.  He 
would  not  be  so  brutal  as  the  average  Eng 
lish  husband,  but  there  would  be  tyrannies, 
extravagancies,  domestic  exactions.  Lord 
Blandis  has  no  sensitiveness.  A  good  fel 
low  indeed — if  always  amused.  Jolly — if 
pleased.  Isabel  would  not  always  please. 
Angered,  I  can  imagine  her  a  tempest  of 
fury.  She  must  reign — be  paramount.  .  .  . 
There  are  beauties  in  England.  Lord 
Blandis,  they  say,  could  never  be  accused 
of  too  great  constancy.  The  young  Count 
ess  Isabel  is  his  latest  fancy.  There  would 
be  a  later.  The  world  has  him  forever  in 
its  grasp,  and  when  we  say  the  world — 
how  often  we  mean  the  women  of  it  ! 

I  believe  he  would  hold  her  a  little  higher 
than  most  English  noblemen,  their  wives — 
he  would  not  merely  regard  her  duties  to 
his  line — but  love,  he  little  understands. 


December  21st. 

pHEN  I  walked 
through  the  rain 
to  my  hotel  late 
this  afternoon, 
my  mind  was 
filled  with  mis- 
giving.  The 
tall  palaces  reaching  skyward  above  the  ca 
nal  never  seemed  so  mysterious,  so  threat 
ening,  so  mediaeval.  A  dismal  mist  hung 
over  the  Lido.  A  stray  gondola  flying 
along  before  the  Ponte  Longo  ran  swift, 
like  the  black  cat  of  Hecate. 

Murder  seemed  to  hang  low  in  the  air 
like  the  mist.  I  walked  fast.  "  A  band  of 
bravoes  with  daggers  drawn,"  I  saw  in 
every  group  of  Venetian  gentlemen.  The 
screeching  gondolieri  were  ruffians — the 
beggars  of  St.  Mark's,  lepers.  A  gentle 
man  forsooth  must  venture  forth  with  Ian- 


136  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


terns  and  a  bodyguard.  It  was  Venice  of 
the  middle  ages — a  transformation  sudden 
as  it  was  terrifying.  At  noon  the  sun  loomed 
through  the  yellow  mist  like  a  white  moon 
at  midnight.  All  things  were  beautiful  to 
the  eye.  'At  noon  I  had  not  seen  the  Count 
ess  Cologni. 

The  Countess  Cologni  had  no  need  to  tell 
me  to-day  at  her  salon,  that  it  had  been  the 
Count  Folsogni's  purpose  to  marry  his 
daughter  to  Lord  Blandis.  She  went  on, 
however,  after  some  hesitation,  and  in 
formed  me  that  the  Count  was  badly  in 
debt.  He  had  led  a  passionate,  wicked  life. 
He  had  broken  his  wife's  heart  long  ago. 
Until  Isabel  returned  from  her  pension  in 
Paris,  he  had  filled  the  Palazzo  Regiani 
with  his  mistresses.  He  is  an  old  roue,  a 
reprobate,  a  scoundrel.  I  do  not  care  to 
write  here  all  that  she  told  me.  But  Isa 
bel's  return  had  changed  him.  He  became 
a  most  solicitous,  dutiful  father.  He  did 
his  best  to  gratify  her  every  whim.  He 
even  made  many  sacrifices,  that  Isabel 
should  make  a  great  marriage.  He  bought 
her  dresses,  jewels — everything.  Latterly 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  137 

he  favored  her  Americanism,  when  he  saw 
that  the  English  milords  admired  it.  Lord 
Blandis  was  worth  hooking  with  every  or 
any  variety  of  bait. 

And  this  man  now  holds  his  daughter's 
destinies  rudely,  cruelly  in  his  grasp.  She 
has  refused  the  Englishman — she  is  to  be 
disciplined  ! 

"  He  is  mediaeval — always  was,  always 
will  be — cruel,  villainous,  mysterious,"  she 
whispered.  "  He  has  two — three  cowardly 
murders,  which  he  calls  duels,  on  his  soul. 
.  .  .  It  is  the  end  of  the  race  of  nobile 
Folsogni — the  end  of  the  nobili  Regianis  ! 
Quevuole?  Let  it  go  !  That  is  the  reason 
one  never  hears  nor  sees  the  poor  Countess, 
his  wife — she  knows  him.  She  does  not 
resist  him.  Si,  Signore,  she  retires.  She  is 
silent  these  ten  years.  She  is  afraid.  .  ." 
"  But  Isabel  is  not  afraid  ?  " 
"  There  have  been  terrible  scenes — 
Although  the  appearance  of  the  weazened 
little  Countess  was  almost  ludicrously  over- 
tragic,  yet  what  she  said  was  sufficiently 
appalling.  "  Ecco  !  She  is  a  capricciosa  ! 
She  would  be  Americana.  So  shall  she 


138  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

now  do  what  her  father  wishes — or — the 
convent  ! — But  she  is  a  young  tigress — 

"  They  mean  to  send  her  to  the  convent  ? " 

"  A  relative  of  ours — a  dignitary  of  the 

Church,  the  .Prince  Fratelli ."  Here  the 

little  Countess  paused  enigmatically  and 
coughed. 

"  This  Prince  will  procure  her  a  fine 
opportunity  in  the  Church  ? "  I  asked  as 
calmly  as  I  could. 

"  He  is  enormously  rich.  He  will  pay 
the  Count's  debts." 

"  He  is  benevolent  ?  " 

"  Benevolent  !  "  She  threw  me  a  des 
pairing  glance. 

I  am  at  a  loss  exactly  to  follow  her 
meaning.  Prince  Fratelli  she  tells  me  is 
one  of  the  youngest  and  richest  in  the 
college  at  Rome.  He  inherited  an  enor 
mous  fortune  from  the  old  banker  Olgi,  of 
Florence,  his  grandfather.  He  is  a  rela 
tive.  He  desires  to  assist  the  Fblsognis. 
He  has  seen  Isabel. 

"  He  has  seen  her  ?" 

"  Yes.  He  admires  her  beauty.  He  is  a 
connoisseur." 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  139 

"  But — a  priest — is  he  not  ?  " 

"  He  will  play  the  part  of  good  friend 
and  protector.  She  will  go  to  live  in 
Rome.  Afterward,  she  will  be  well  settled 
in  some  rich  convent  in  Spain — a  career  for 
Isabel — M.  Burden  !  " 

I  was  silent. 

"  Oh,  do  not  consider  that  we  are  no 
longer  mediaeval,"  said  the  Countess  lightly. 
"  Recall  also  the  ruin  which  confronts  him 
— the  immense  sums  the  Count  Folsogni 
owes.  He  will  do  anything  to  still  retain 
his  ancient  house  on  the  canal,  that  palace 
of  palaces.  He  has  pride  of  race.  He  is 
driven  to  desperation  at  this  time.  And  it 
is  at  this  moment  that  the  Jesuit  comes  for 
ward.  Prince  Fratelli  was  here  but  yester 
day.  He  had  audience  with  Isabel.  He 
will  pay  all  the  debts,  one  hundred  thou 
sand  napoleons.  You  see  the  situation  for 
Isabel  ?  It  was  Lord  Blandis — or  the 
Church  !  But  now  Lord  Blandis  has  gone 
forever.  My  sir,  the  power  of  the  Vene 
tian  father  has  not  been  lost  through  the 
Austrians,  or  the  Italian  regime,  nor  yet 
been  quite  extinguished  by  the  American- 


140  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


ism  of  Isabel.  Non!  It  is  not  for  herselt 
alone  that  she  must  choose  her  husband — 
her  fate.  Her  family  demands  that  she 
shall  sacrifice  herself  that  it  may  be  pre 
served." 

"  But  on  the  Count's  death — Isabel  is  the 
last  of  her  race  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  son.  Some  years  ago  he 
quarrelled  with  his  father,  left  Venice,  and 
entered  a  mercantile  house  in  Naples. 
He  is  an  honest,  worthy,  young  man — but 
he  cut  himself  off  from  his  family  by  this 
act.  Now  it  is  the  plan  to  request  his 
return  to  Venice,  to  rehabilitate  him,  to 
marry  him  well.  The  Palazzo  will  be  refur 
nished.  The  Count  Folsogni  will  grow  old 
grandly,  piously,  surrounded  by  grand 
children " 

"  And  Isabel  buried  for  life — in  some 
remote  conventual  house  in  Spain  ?" 

"  Eventually."  The  little  Countess  laid 
much  stress  on  this  word. 

"  Eventually  ?  "     I  repeat  dazedly. 

"  The  good  Prince  will  at  first  permit  her 
to  see  much  of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the 
devil." 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  141 


"  She  will  revolt." 

The  little  Countess  shook  her  head  in 
the  Venetian  manner,  hopelessly.  "  At 
first,  yes — in  the  end,  no." 

"She  will  kill  him  !  " 

"  Possible — too." 

"  She  has  so  much  to  live  for.  She  is 
ambitious — hopeful." 

u  Non  !  No  true  Venetian  is  ever  truly 
hopeful.  Isabel  is  a  Venetian." 

"  It  is  horribly  cruel." 

"  There  is  reason  in  the  thing,  Sir 
Burden.  The  family  survives.  The  old 
palazzo  is  restored.  The  name  Folsogni 
again  becomes  great.  The  Count  will  enter 
the  political  arena.  His  son  returns.  Ah, 
the  family  is  everything — all,  Sir  Burden.  It 
is  more  than  the  life — than  the  mere  honor 
of  a  figlia." 

''  Her  honor  is  the  family's — 

"Non!  She  is  not  dishonored — she  dis 
appears.  She  is  soon  forgotten."  The 
little  old  "  'lustrissima "  began  to  weep 
gently. 

"  Are  we  living  in  the  days  of  Doge 
Falieri  ?  "  I  exclaim. 


142  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


When  I  left  her  palazzo,  and  hurried  to 
my  hotel,  my  head  was  in  a  fever  of  excite 
ment.  I  read  Isabel's  little  note,  which  I 
find  at  the  hotel,  five  times.  It  would  ap 
pear  that  she  is  anxious  to  see  me. 

In  all  that  the  Countess  Cologni  has 
told  me,  she  has  herself  shown  the  true 
Venetian  fatalism.  She  will  be  merely  a 
witness  to  Isabel's  sacrifice.  Deploring  it, 
yet  not  seeking  to  prevent  it.  Witnessing 
calmly  the  sale  of  this  beautiful  slave  to 
the  evil-minded  prince,  seeing  the  money 
paid,  the  family  name  redeemed,  the  palaz 
zo  refurnished.  All  at  once  it  seems  as  if 
I  am  being  hurried  backward  into  the 
medievalism  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
when  "chivalry"  meant  lust,  and  what  we 
call  pure  disinterested  love  had  barely 
dawned  in  the  hovels  of  the  poor,  and  in 
tradesmen's  shops. 

Chivalry  !  How  many  lies  are  uttered  in 
thy  name  !  It  was  chivalry  which  invented 
the  curious  name  of  "maitresse."  It 
was  chivalry  which  bred  gallantry,  and 
gallantry,  deception.  All  the  while,  the 
truer,  higher  love  was  dawning  among  the 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  143 

common  folk,  in  the  narrow  little  shops,  in 
the  small  country-life  among  the  people, 
whence  it  was  carried  across  the  seas  to 
bloom  in  the  soil  of  my  native  America. 

10  p.  M. 

I  have  spent  two  hours  with  Isabel  at  the 
old  palazzo.  There  was  no  disposition  to 
prevent  me,  only  when  I  called  at  six  I 
was  informed  that  Isabel  was  not  at  home. 
I  learned  later  that  this  was  untrue.  When 
I  called  at  seven,  she  had  not  returned.  At 
eight,  I  was  ushered  through  the  cold, 
gloomy  halls  of  the  first  floor  up  the  wide 
stone  staircase  into  a  richly  carved  little 
chapel,  as  it  seemed.  The  varied  marbles 
of  the  walls,  the  gold  lacunae  of  the  ceiling, 
the  exquisite  little  altar  of  silver  before 
which  hung  a  red  lamp,  the  three  or  four 
pictures  of  the  Bellini  school,  the  general 
stillness  and  silence  of  the  great  dimly  lit 
palace,  the  length  of  time  I  was  left  alone 
waiting  for  Isabel, — all  gave  me  the  impres 
sion  that  I  had  closed  the  doors  of  the 
nineteenth  century  upon  myself.  Every- 


144  A  Daughter  of   Venice. 

thing  here,  from  the  oriental  footstools  to 
the  tabourettes,  and  the  curious  lamps,  is 
of  the  past.  Why  I  am  ushered  into  the 
chapel  I  know  not.  The  chambers  in 
which  Isabel  has  had  her  "  American  even 
ings  "  were  always  light,  cheerful,  filled 
with  furniture  of  recent  date,  and  made 
modern  by  an  English  Uroadwood. 

The  chapel  opens  by  a  stately  doorway 
into  the  grand  hall,  the  walls  of  which  are 
covered  with  family  portraits  and  one  or 
two  Canalettos.  The  family  have  moved 
into  the  story  above  for  the  winter  season, 
and  all  the  vast  dimly-lit  chambers  on  the 
second  floor  are  empty.  But  what  impos 
ing  grandeur  of  effect  !  What  magnificent 
balls,  marriage  feasts,  banquets,  festivities 
have  taken  place  here  !  Grand,  cold, 
glistening,  magnificently  uncomfortable, — 
this  stately  Venetian  palace  ! 

The  grandness  of  the  house  strongly 
impresses  me,  too,  with  the  greatness  of  the 
old  nobile  family.  Regarded  through  the 
centuries,  it  is  the  family,  not  Isabel,  which 
is  important  and  which  must  be  kept  alive. 
She  is  but  an  individual,  an  item  ;  the  fam- 


A  Daughter  of   Venice.  145 

ily  corporation  goes  on  forever.  One  of  the 
race  was  a  Doge  in  the  sixteenth  century. 
Decayed  now,  its  wealth  departed,  to  be 
restored  to  all  its  grandeur  through  the  sac 
rifice  of  Isabel's  life.  I  confess  I  feel  the 
subtle  influence  of  the  old  palace,  and  am 
aware  how  intensified  this  gens  feeling  is,  in 
the  rich  little  family  chapel.  Not  so  many 
years  ago,  a  canonico — a  family  priest — was 
the  necessary  appendage  of  every  great 
Venetian  house  ;  the  chapel  is  still  scented 
by  his  incense  ;  here  Isabel  was  christened 
"  Isabella,"  which  she  has  Americanized 
into  Isabel.  Pictures  of  her  infant  life  in 
these  vast  halls  come  to  me  ;  her  girl  life. 
The  influences  of  the  past  must  have 
strongly  affected  her  ; — could  she  have 
thrown  them  all  to  the  winds  during  her 
Paris  schooling  ?  Is  she,  then,  in  reality 
such  a  modern  ?  Is  her  Americanism  the 
purest  affectation  ?  Behind  it,  is  the  true 
Isabel  still  a  Venetian  ? 

Presently  the  young  girl  enters,  looking 
pale,  and  as  though  she  had  been  weeping. 
After  a  few  preliminaries,  she  turns  to  me. 

"  My  father  is  angry,"  she  says,  "  because 
10 


146  A  Daughter  of   Venice. 

I  have  thrown  over  Lord  Blandis  (you  are 
my  friend,  and  I  can  say  anything  to  you), 
and  he  says  there  is  an  end  of  my  freedom 
of  America — and  this,  too,  after  I  had  de 
clined  to  see  Signore  Ferati.  Che  Tiwle  ?  I 
have  done  much  for  my  father — every  prin 
ciple  of  republicanism  he  has  learned 
through  me  ;  I  have  educated  him.  It  sur 
prises  me  to  see  him  so — severe.  But  Lord 
Blandis — he — I  don't  know — he  is  a  num 
skull." 

The  pretty  mo ue  she  makes  with  her  purse- 
like  red  lips,  as  she  say  this,  causes  me,  even 
in  the  presence  of  the  possible  tragedy  (of 
which  Isabel  herself  is  at  present  ignorant), 
to  smile. 

"  Could  you  not — after  your  marriage 
with  him — learn  to  love  him  ?  " 

"  Learn  to  love — learn  to  love  !  "  she  said 
contemptuously.  "  That  is  so  absurd.  It  is 
either  love  or  not,"  decisively.  "  If  not, 
then  no  marriage.  Am  I  not  an  American  ? 
I  have  said  this  to-day  many  times,  M. 
Burden." 

As  she  speaks,  she  glances  about  over 
the  dim  pictures  of  the  little  chapel,  and 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  147 

unconsciously  shudders.  "  Why  have  they 
brought  you  in  here  ?  it  is  so  cold,"  she 
says. 

"  The  chapel  of  the  Folsognis — 

"  I  never  liked  the  feeling  of  all  the  old 
ghosts  pointing  so  commandingly  at  me. 
The  ancestors  so  intent  on  the  family's 
name  and  future.  In  life  they  could  roy 
ally  wreck  it — but  in  death,  woe  be  to  her 
who  is  disobedient— eh,  my  friend  ?  " 

She  looked  up  at  the  portrait  of  an  old 
Doge  in  black  velvet  and  golden  neck- 
chains.  He  frowned  sternly. 

The  question  in  my  eyes  she  answers 
abruptly  in  her  ready  French, — 

"  I  have  sent  for  you,  because — because  I 
shall  not  see  you  again  now.  I  am  going  to 
Rome.  The  Prince  Fratelli  is  a  distant  rela 
tive.  I  do  not  know  what  society  I  shall  see. 
I  fear  it  will  be  stupid — no  American  fun — 
but  I  long  to  see  Rome.  I  can  pass  a  few 
weeks  there  very  well,  until  the  carnival. 
Perhaps  you  are  not  to  be  in  Rome  this 
winter,  M.  Burden  ?  " 

Could  she  but  know  !  How  can  I  frame 
the  words  which  announce  to  her  the  vil- 


148  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

lainy  of  her  own  father  !  They  have  not 
told  her  of  the  convent — afterward.  I 
murmur  that  I  will  go  to  Rome  if  she  goes. 
She  is  pleased. 

"  So  many  Americans  in  Rome,"  she  says, 
reddening  a  little  ;  and  she  mentions  half  a 
dozen  names — people  she  has  met  in  Venice. 
It  is  evident  that  Rome  appears  to  her  an 
attractive  change.  "  At  the  Prince's  palace 
I  intend  to  have  my  own  way.  I  shall  give 
perhaps  a  ball  and  some  quiet  little  dinners. 
Do  you  think  my  American  '  evenings  ' 
will  please  the  canonicos  ?  The  Prince  has 
been  here.  He  is  not  very  old.  I  am  not 
afraid  of  him.  He  likes  port  wine.  He 
drinks  two  bottles  at  a  time.  In  Rome,  if 
he  wishes  me  to  remain  long,  he  will  drink 
one  bottle  or  less.  They  will  send  for  my 
brother  at  Napoli — he  will  return  to  Venice 
and  the  old  quarrel  be  made  up  .They  will 
restore  the  palace.  There  seems  to  be 
money  now  from  somewhere— and  money 
has  been  so  scarce  with  us,  M.  Burden." 

"  Do  not  go  to  Rome  !  "  I  say  impul 
sively. 

"  Do  not  go  to  Rome  ?"  she  asks. 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  149 


"  At  least — have  you  talked  with  the 
Countess  Cologni  ?  " 

"  She  approves." 

"  Approves  ?  " 

"  She  says  it  is  well  to  interest  the  rich 
Prince  Fratelli  in  our  fortunes.  He  is  very 
wealthy.  Indeed  it  is  very  kind  of  him  to 
come  all  the  way  to  Venice.  He  has  no 
friends,  poor  soul  !  I  am  sorry  for  him  ;  he 
is  childless,  I  will  be  a  daughter  to  the  good 
man  I  will  show  him  that,  though  I  have 
thrown  overboard  the  Church,  yet  I  have 
not  lost  my  better  feelings.  I  need  not 
teach  him  republicanism.  I  shall  try  to 
love  him.  He  will  be  kind.  I  shall  not  be 
afraid  of  him  as — I  am  of  my  father  ;  yet 
never  until  lately  was  I  he  least  afraid 
of  him.  My  father  is  changed.  He  is  not 
the  same.  He  seems  to  have  suddenly 
grown  very  old  and  harsh.  When  I  kiss 
him,  he  turns  away  his  head.  Is  it  not 
strange  ?  " 

At  that  instant  a  gentle  footfall  is  heard 
on  the  threshold.  A  lady  whom  I  have 
seen  once  before  enters. 

"  Madre  !  "  exclaims  Isabel,  rising. 


150  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

The  elder  woman  wears  a  look  of  settled 
melancholy.  Her  dark  eyes  turn  from  me 
in  the  saddest,  most  beseeching  manner. 
She  is  bent  and  old  beyond  her  years. 

"  Your  father  has  returned,"  she  whis 
pers. 

A  frightened  look  comes  over  Isabel's 
face.  "  He  was  not  to  return  until  to-mor 
row.  How  is  it  that  he  returns  so  soon  ?  " 
she  asks. 

"  He  is  here." 

It  is  all  that  her  mother  says,  and  with 
out  being  presented,  withdraws. 

This  silent  woman  !  Once  before  have  I 
seen  her  passing  with  bowed  head  from  one 
of  those  vast,  gloomy  sala  to  the  other. 
Her  spirit  is  broken.  She  seems  the  very 
epitome  of  the  old  patrician*  lady  of  a  past 
century.  Her  will,  her  hopes,  her  fears 
bound  to  the  tyranny  of  the  head  of  the 
house  into  which  she  married.  She  stoops 
as  she  walks,  and  yet  I  can  see  that  the 
Countess  Folsogni  was  once  a  tall  and 
graceful — even  a  spirited  woman.  What 
dreadful  scenes  have  met  her  gaze  in  this 
vast  pile-  where  no  outside  law  could  enter 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  1 5 1 


to  override  the  will  of  her  husband  ?  Her 
son  has  been  banished,  yet  now  to  be  re 
called,  and  her  daughter  sold  to  the  caprices 
of  a  prince  ! 

The  Count  enters  the  hallway,  and  Isabel 
rather  timidly  advances  to  meet  him.  She 
swims  down  the  long  polished  marble  floor 
to  where  he  awaits  her,  near  the  entrance. 
Softly  the  Countess  Folsogni  approaches 
me,  and  in  the  purest  English,  says  in  a  low 
voice,  "  Signore  Burden,  I  have  no  time  to 
explain.  Do  you  love  her  [indicating  Isa 
bel]  ?  Will  you  be  good  to  her  always  ?  " 
Her  face  admonishes  me  to  betray  no  sur 
prise. 

"  She  has  refused  me,  madame." 

"  Still  she  will  not  again.  This  is  her 
last  night  in  Venice — her  last  of  freedom. 
She  is  ignorant.  Fly  with  her  !  She  loves 
you.  Go  to  America,  where  there  is  happi 
ness  for  her — she  will  prove  a  loyal  wife, 
Signore." 

"  Fly  with  her  ?"  I  ask  in  amazement. 

"  Every  moment  is  precious.  They  have 
sealed  their  bargain.  She  is  sold  !  " 

The  Countess    buried    her    face    in    her 


15-'  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

hands.  She  is  trembling  as  she  speaks.  It 
is  a  supreme  effort  for  her.  She  sinks  back 
upon  one  of  the  high  gilt  chairs  which 
stand  at  either  side  of  the  door.  Over  her 
face  spreads  a  pallor  like  the  pallor  of 
death. 

Still  stronger  comes  over  me  the  feeling 
that  I  am  witnessing  one  of  those  mediaeval 
household  dramas  which,  now  at  the  end 
of  our  prosaic  century,  seem  to  us  so  im 
possible.  It  cannot  be  true.  Isabel — sold  ? 
Absurd  !  The  honest,  if  worldly  old  Count, 
too,  from  whom  I  have  derived  only  amuse 
ment,  is  not  as  base  as  that.  Impossible  ! 
Impossible  !  I  thrust  the  mists  of  such  a  ter 
rible  accusation  from  me,  and  awake  as  from 
a  hideous  dream.  The  police  are  within  call. 
There  are  the  newspapers.  All  Christendom 
shall  ring  out  their  startled  outcry  against 
such  a  piece  of  satanic  wickedness,  if  there 
is  a  suspicion  of  its  truth.  I  turn  from  the 
face  of  the  wretched  mother,  and  gaze  upon 
the  smiling,  luminous  countenance  of  Isa 
bel,  who  approaches  on  her  father's  arm. 

Under  the  candles  of  the  great  chande 
lier  her  face  shines  like  some  beautiful 


SMt*   -35^??^^^"        ffj         K,          flj*. 

^l!sfc 


THE    PALACE    GATE 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  153 


radiant  star.  She  seems  exalted,  full  of  a 
strange  enthusiasm.  I  have  never  seen  her 
so  beautiful,  so  spiritual,  yet  so  gay.  It  is 
as  if  something  the  Count  has  said,  has 
raised  her  spirits  to  the  highest  point.  She 
dances  along  the  scaglia  floor  on  her  father's 
arm,  as  I  have  seen  sweet  young  girls  dance 
in  America,  at  the  whispered  promise  of  a 
desired  Christmas  present. 

"  My  brother  has  telegraphed  he  will  re 
turn  at  once  to  Venice,"  she  cries.  "Ah, 
the  good  Prince  Fratelli — it  is  his  doing. 
And  my  good  father,  he,  too,  wishes  my 
brother  Manuelo  here  at  home.  He  will 
forgive  and  forget  all." 

The  Count's  face  was  inscrutable. 

"  And  my  brother,  he,  too,  is  of  the  new 
generation — he  works.  When  in  a  short 
time  I  return  to  Venice,  he  and  I  will  begin 
our  reforms." 

"  We  will  not  weary  Signore  Burden  with 
these  plans,"  remarks  the  Count,  gravely. 

"  Suppose  you  do  not  return,  Madami- 
gella,"  I  say  impulsively. 

"  Oh— I  die  then?"  She  laughs.  It 
seems  to  this  young  beauty  that  death 


154  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

is  the  very  last,  remotest,  obstacle  in  her 
path. 

Her  father  eyes  me  narrowly. 

"You  may  find  it  difficult  to  return  from 
Rome,"  I  say.  "  Rome  is  dangerous." 

The  Count  bursts  out  laughing.  "  It  is 
that  you  will  spend  every  centesimo  you 
possess,  mia  cara,  at  the  Carnival.  You 
will  not  have  the  fares  for  the  railway. 
This  I  know  now  to  be  American  humor  !  " 

Isabel  laughs,  but  I  do  not  laugh,  and 
her  face  becomes  grave  again. 

"  What  is  this — not  come  back  ?  "  She 
glances  quickly  toward  her  mother.  It  is 
from  her  she  has  learned  in  this  household 
she  can  only  get  the  truth.  She  has  noted 
the  serious  ring  in  my  voice. 

It  is  a  tragic  moment.  Slowly  the  beaten 
woman  rises  from  her  chair,  clad  in  her 
long  gown  of  black  velvet,  which  trails 
behind  her  as  she  totters  toward  her  hus 
band,  her  hands  clasped,  her  lips  closed  in 
mute  appeal. 

"  Tell  her  the  truth — you  dare  not  !  "  she 
hisses  in  the  old  Venetian  dialect. 

In  a  furv  of  rage  the  Count  has  shaken 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  155 

his  arm  free  from  Isabel  and  advanced 
upon  his  wife.  He  raises  his  hand  to  strike 
her  down.  Instantly  Isabel  throws  herself 
between  them.  The  coward's  blow  has 
unmasked  the  Count  to  her  and  to  me. 

"  Tell  me  the  truth  !  "  she  cries  to  her 
father.  "  Is  it  a  trick  ?  If  you  could  strike 
her,  what  can  you  not  do  to  me  ?  Is  it  all 
a  lie  what  the  good  Prince  Fratelli  has  done 
for  us?  A  lie — all  you  have  told  me?  A 
lie,  that  Manuelo  returns  and  we  are  one 
again  ?  What  is  the  truth, poverina  Madre? 
Tell  me  !  I  will  know  it.  I'm  not  the  one 
to  be  easily  duped.  I  shall  do  as  I  please. 
I  shall  not  go  to  Rome, — for  it  is  true 
then  that  I  shall  not  be  permitted  to 
return  to  Venice — yes,  it  is  true  !  What  ! 
There  is  some  trick  there  ?  I  can  play 
tricks  too  !  I  will  not  go  to  Rome.  I  will 
not  leave  Venice.  So,  once  for  all,  I  do  as 
I  please  !  /  am  Americana!"  She  draws 
herself  to  her  full  height. 

Her  anger  is  fine.  It  calms  her  father, 
and  turns  his  malignity  into  subtle  pas 
sivity. 

"  Isabella,"  he  calls  out  in  his  deep  basso 


156  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

profundo,  "  do  not  be  so  foolish  !  You 
may  go  or  stay  as  it  pleases  you.  Forgive 
my  anger,  Madam."  Turning  to  his  wife 
with  a  low  bow.  "  I  am  not  myself  in  anger. 
I  know  not  what  I  do."  A  low  bow  again. 
"  M.  Burden,  you  will  understand  us  Vene 
tians.  We  are  all  impulse,  feeling,  emotion, 
whatever  we  do.  When  we  go  in  villeggia- 
tura  each  season,  it  is  the  same.  We  have 
a  tableau,  tears,  outcries,  reproaches.  I  am 
accused  of  every  known  crime.  It  is  so  now. 
Isabella,  you  need  not  go  to  Rome.  Do 
you  hear  me  ?  You  shall  stay  in  Venice 
with  your  old  father,  so  that  you  never 
need  fear  you  will  not  return.  As  for  the 
Prince,  I  do  not  care  that  for  his  good  will ! 
Do  you  hear,  Isabella,  you  may  go  or 
stay." 

Isabel's  anger  drops  out  of  sight. 
"Pardon,  my  father,"  she  says  sweetly.  "I 
forgot  myself  also.  I  will  think  over  this 
thing.  Perhaps  I  will  go — or  not.  Per 
haps  I  will  stay — or  not.  We  shall  see.  It 
is  as  I  wish." 

"  It  is  as  I  will,"  growls  the  old  Count, 
in  an  aside,  looking  furtively  at  me. 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  157 


Taking  her  mother's  arm,  and  making  a 
sweeping  courtesy  to  me,  Isabel  moves  slow 
ly  down  the  great  sala,  and  passes  out.  At 
the  portal  she  turns,  and  waves  me  an 
adieu. 

"  Humph,"  shrugs  the  Count,  smiling, 
"  She  is  still  Americana  !  "  Then  he  adds, 
"  America  is  one  grand  humbug  !  tsa  !  " 

"Count  Folsogni,"  I  say  slowly,  "you 
are  aware  that  I  love  your  daughter.  I 
will  not  willingly  permit  any  harm  to  come 
to  her — any  wrong  to  be  done  her.  I  pro 
pose  to  hold  you  responsible  for  your 
charge— with  your  life." 

"  Bah  !  the  duello  !  "  and  he  helps  him 
self  laughingly  to  a  pinch  of  snuff. 

I  turn  on  my  heel,  feeling  that  the  man 
may  be  a  small  mean  sort  of  villain  enough, 
but  that  Isabel  is  clearly  his  master,  at 
least,  she  is  safe  to-night.  I  leave  the 
palaz/o,  and  return  to  my  hotel,  still  pon 
dering  over  the  Countess's  words,  "  Fly  with 
her — she  loves  you."  They  sound  and 
resound  in  my  ears  as  I  walk  through  the 
narrow  calle,  like  the  lines  of  Goldoni  in 
some  romantic  play.  The  whole  scene  has 


158  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


been  mediaeval — strangely  antique.  The 
cold  moon  looks  down  on  the  Venice  of 
three  centuries  ago  as  I  go  home.  Such 
family  crimes  were  common  to  the  age  of 
Chivalry,  not  to  this  age  of  Commerce. 

"Fly  with  Isabel!"      Aye,   truly  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth  ! 


December  y)th. 

OW  softly  the 
light  steals  into 
my  c  h  a  m  b  er 
across  the 
Grand  Canal  ; 
how  it  sifts 
through  the 
white  mist,  en- 
velopi  n  g  the 
Salute.  Night 
All  seems  dull 
Isabel  has 


white    Santa    Maria    clella 
scarcely  wakens  to  day. 
and    passionless    enough,   for 
been  gone   three  days. 

Across  the  little  calle  the  great  Palazzo 
Regiani  seems  wrapped  in  gloom.  The  cur 
tains  are  all  drawn.  I  have  called  once  to 
pay  my  respects  to  the  Countess  Folsogni, 
but  they  told  me  she  was  ill. 

From  the  Countess  Cologni  I  learned 
to-day  that  hitherto  Isabel  has  always  had 
her  own  way  with  her  father.  In  little  or 


160  A  Daughter  of   Venice. 

great  things  about  the  palace,  her  will  has 
been  law.  Within  a  week,  all  this  has 
changed.  Isabel  never  ventured  out  for  a 
walk  again  alone.  Those  who  saw  her 
marked  her  appearance  of  distress.  She 
was  no  longer  Americana  ! 

Since  the  night  I  saw  and  talked  with 
her  I  have  seen  her  but  once.  In  this  little 
rencontre  I  learned  enough  to  make  me 
doubt  her  mother's  accuracy  of  statement 
as  to  her  having  any  feeling  for  me,  as  well 
as  the  fact  of  any  danger  attending  her 
on  her  visit  in  Rome.  I  came  to  believe 
that  the  Countess  Folsogni  was  the  victim 
of  purely  nervous  derangement.  Isabel  at 
the  interview  betrayed  no  emotion,  and 
even  seemed  to  me  a  trifle  cold  and  hard. 
She  seemed  to  have  aged  a  little  within  so 
short  a  time.  I  learned  from  the  Cologni 
that  little  by  little  the  debts,  the  ruin,  the 
evil  deeds  of  her  father  have  been  gradu 
ally  made  known  to  her.  Her  pride  of  race 
was  slowly  stabbed  to  death.  Perhaps  she 
came  to  hate  him — and  Rome  seemed  a 
refuge.  She  went  at  last,  they  say,  quite 
willingly,  sending  by  Felicia,  her  maid,  a 


A  Daughter  of  Venice-  161 

basket  of  white  roses  for  me,  with  a  little 
note  asking  me  to  forgive  the  wildness, 
the  foolishness  of  a  young  girl  who  had 
only  brought  jests  upon  my  native  country, 
America. 

Those  who  saw  her  at  the  station,  and 
there  were  many  to  see  her  depart, — who 
could  not  help  loving  this  strange,  beauti 
ful  creature? — those  who  saw  her  close  at 
hand  remarked  the  change  in  her  face — as 
some  said,  from  youth  to  womanhood  ;  as 
others  said,  to  premature  old  age. 


ROME, 
January^,  18 — . 

VERYWHERE       I 

went  to-day  they 
were  talkingof  the 
beauty  of  Isabel. 
Yet  she  has  not 
been  in  Rome  a 
month. 

I    called     again 

at  the  Fratelli  palace  on  the  Aretino, 
but  was  informed  by  the  servants  that 
Isabel  was  in  the  country.  I  learned  from 
a  friend  that  she  was  at  the  Marchesa  di 
Severini's  ball  two  days  ago.  She  attracted 
great  attention  ;  she  wore  the  most  gorgeous 
diamonds — she,  a  young  girl  !  They  say 
she  drank  champagne,  and  made  English 
puns  on  every  name  of  note  in  the  ball 
room.  From  this  I  am  rather  pleased  to 
observe  that  Isabel  has  returns  of  her 
former  "  American  "  feeling — a  desire  to 
be  advertised.  The  Prince  and  his  friends 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  163 

make  a  great  pet  of  her.  (That  old  story 
was  a  canard.) 

She  will  undoubtedly  become  a  great 
belle  at  Rome.  She  will  be  much  talked 
about,  admired,  and,  shortly,  she  will  for 
get  that  I  have  existed. 

The  high  society  of  Rome,  like  that  of 
London,  is  pleased  with  a  new  toy.  I  fancy 
that  this  rare  daughter  of  Venice  will  easily 
make  her  little  court,  as  in  her  native  city. 
The  rich  Prince  Fratelli,  the  magnificent 
palace,  give  her  the  requisite  background. 
She  will,  perhaps,  marry  a  royal  personage, 
giving- to  me  this  advantage,  that  hereafter 
her  every  movement  will  be  chronicled  in 
Galignani  and  the  Morning  News.  It  will 
be  a  curious  experience  to  watch  this  im 
perial  star  set  so  high  in  the  social  firma 
ment  ;  to  remember  that  I  knew  and  loved 
her  when  she  was  simply  a  young  signorina 
fresh  from  school,  when  she  was  filled  with 
her  first  vague  enthusiasms — her  youthful 
dreams.  I  am  conscious  of  the  fact  that  a 
woman  who  is  awakened  too  rudely  often 
becomes  a  cynic  at  twenty-one.  She  will 
learn  to  laugh  at  me — at  my  ambitions  !  I 


164  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


think  that  her  death  would  be  more  endura 
ble  than  this— her  disappearance  into  the 
"light  of  common  day  "  of  the  great  world. 
There  is  a  mocking  laugh  at  me  in  this 
event. 

I  have  schooled  my  heart  to  give  her  up  ; 
yet  I  must  linger  here  where  sometimes  I 
may  see  her,  hear  her  gay  laugh,  thrill  with 
a  kindly  glance  of  her  eye.  Hitherto  I 
have  never  been  accused  of  being  a  senti 
mentalist  ;  but  now  I  seem  to  float  in  a  sea 
of  it  :  I  await  and  watch  my  emotions.  I 
forget  my  Puritan  origin,  forget  my  train 
ing,  which  has  sought  to  teach  me  that  love 
is  but  a  matter  of  religion  ! 

As  I  sit  at  my  window  looking  out  over 
the  towers  and  roofs  of  the  Imperial  City, 
a  vision  of  my  native  New  England  town 
appears.  The  elm-covered  street  is  de 
serted.  The  wintry  wind  sighs  among 
the  elm  branches.  The  leaves  drop  and 
are  caught  on  the  wind.  A  solitary  "  buggy  " 
winds  along  the  muddy  road  toward  a 
tall,  ungainly,  white  meetin'  house.  A  tall 
girl  walks  slowly  churchward.  My  sister  ! 
She  is  pale  and  unhappy, — the  beginning 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  165 

of  the  long  illness  which  ended  in  her 
death.  She  has  just  refused  a  worthy 
young  man  because  he  was  of  a  different 
denomination!  She  was  loyal  to  her  Con 
gregationalism — he  to  his  Episcopalianism. 
Her  face  shows  vigils  and  conflict.  I 
remember  how  it  saddened  her  to  know 
that  I  could  not  sympathize.  But  I  could 
not  bring  myself  to  think  that  love  was 
religion,  even  in  Puritan  New  England  ! 
She  never  recovered.  I  hold  it  true  that 
she  was  but  another  victim  of  that  dread 
ful  human  scourge — an  overwrought  con 
science. 


January  26t/i. 

SAW  Isabel  to- 
day  as  she 
drove  rapidly 
past  in  her 
stylish  brough 
am,  en  route 
for  Lady  Minturn's 
reception.  A  lady 
sat  by  her  side — 
the  Baroness  Mun- 
zorff — a  wicked  old 
Austrian  aristo 
crat  (a  friend  of 
the  Prince),  who, 
they  say,  has  taken  Isabel  up. 
I  saw  her  face,  —  flushed  with 
excitement  and  restless  earnestness.  She 
did  not  recognize  me  in  the  crowd.  I 
heard  an  Italian  say  at  my  elbow,  as  the 
carriage  dashed  past,  "  There  goes  the 
Prince's  beauty."  I  turned  and  knocked 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  167 


the  fellow  down, — not  for  the  words  but 
the  leer  as  he  spoke.  He  got  up,  felt  for 
his  knife,  thought  better  of  it,  laughed,  and 
said  he  did  not  know  that  she  was  secretly 
married.  I  let  his  coarse  jokes  pass.  The 
Italians  are  only  witty  upon  one  subject. 

At  the  legation  ball  to-night  I  shall  see 
her  perhaps  again.  They  tell  me  she  is 
in  the  height  of  fashion,  the  toast  of  the 
clubs.  The  Prince  cannot  harm  her — all 
Rome  would  protest. 

Midnight. 

I  have  just  returned  from  the  legation 
ball,  and  have  just  assisted  Isabel  into  her 
carriage.  She  was  taken  seriously  ill  while 
dancing  with  the  young  Prince  Piorani. 
She  fainted.  She  was  a  long  time  in  com 
ing  to.  They  dashed  champagne  in  her 
face — an  Italian  remedy.  It  wet  her  bosom, 
her  beautiful  dress,  her  necklace  of  dia 
monds. 

She  appeared  glad  to  see  me  when  she 
recovered — but  how  changed  she  seemed  ! 
Ah,  she  has  aged  !  The  lightsomeness  of 


1 68  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

her  heart  has  gone,  I  trust  only  tempora 
rily  ;  I  fear,  forever. 

She  told  me  she  felt  ill — she  dreaded  the 
fever.  I  tried  to  calm  her  fears.  In  her 
carriage,  she  fainted  again.  Her  maid  held 
her  in  her  arms,  more  dead  than  alive,  until 
they  reached  the  palazzo.  We  lifted  her 
out  and  carried  her  up  long  stone  stair 
ways  to  her  suite  of  chambers.  I  was  daz 
zled  by  the  richness  and  magnificence  of 
their  decoration.  Half  a  dozen  maids  at 
tended  her,  and  Italian  servants  are  the  best 
in  the  world,  if  unpleasantly  impressionable. 
They  at  once  began  to  weep,  believing  their 
mistress  dead.  The  famous  little  Italian 
doctor,  Travazzi,  bustled  in,  and  going  to  her 
bedside  unblushingly  tore  open  the  bosom 
of  her  low  ball-dress. 

"  Ze  harrta  slope — ze  harrta  'av  not  room. 
I  maka  room,  Signore.  Ah,  eet  is  ze  fever 
— ze  fever  !  " 


April  loth. 

ANY  weeks  have 
elapsed  since  I 
have  written  a 
word  in  my 
diary.  Isabel 
has  been  very  ill 
at  the  palace 
with  the  Roman 
lever.  One  day,  two  months  ago,  as  she 
lay  very  near  death,  as  they  all  believed, 
she  sent  for  me.  As  her  mother  led  me  in, 
the  priest  made  his  exit,  muttering  a  Latin 
prayer. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  scene.  The  cur 
tains  were  drawn  in  all  the  windows  but  one. 
Her  little,  narrow  bed  stood  out  in  the 
centre  of  the  room.  At  her  side  was  a  large 
table  on  which  were  some  roses  I  had  sent, 
in  a  large  bowl,  Every  day  she  had  been 
ill  I  had  sent  them,  American  fashion,  with 
my  "  best  wishes "  written  in  English  on 


1 7°  A  Daughter  of   Venice. 

my  card,  as  I  gave  the  roses  to  the  ser 
vant  at  the  iron  gate  of  the  palace,  in  the 
little  Roman  street. 

Her  chamber  was  on  the  upper  story  of 
the  palazzo,  and  her  windows  looked  east 
ward.  The  one  in  which  the  curtains  were 
drawn  afforded  a  view  of  the  graceful  dome 
of  St.  Peter's. 

I  remember  I  met  the  old  Count  looking 
decrepit  and  worn,  wearing  an  old  dressing- 
gown,  at  the  door.  He  grasped  my  hand 
and  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  but  said 
not  a  word. 

There  were  several  nurses  and  tire-women 
present.  The  Countess  Folsogni  sat  read 
ing  her  breviary  and  counting  her  beads  in 
an  adjoining  room.  I  recall  the  deference 
the  Count  paid  me — that  all  paid  me — and 
it  gave  a  new  impression  that  I  had  a  right 
there  at  Isabel's  bedside. 

As  I  was  used  to  seeing  her  only  in  the 
fulness  of  her  beauty  and  exuberant  health, 
I  was  shocked  when  I  saw  how  emaciated 
she  was.  Only  her  eyes  remained  the  same 
— the  deep  gray  green — and  gave  out  only 
the  gentlest,  most  spiritual  light.  Her 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  171 

hands,  covered  with  gorgeous  rings,  lay 
outside  the  white  covers.  Her  hair  was 
confined  in  a  small,  compact  mass  within  a 
lace  cap.  A  saintly,  holy  sweetness  per 
vaded  the  rich  apartment,  and  all  about  her. 
Before  her  hung  a  fair  copy  of  Raphael's 
Madonna  di  San  Sisto. 

I  think  she  must  have  read  the  sorrow 
and  deep  concern  in  my  face,  for  she  said 
in  a  whisper,  in  Italian,  as  I  bent  down  near 
her  : 

"I  shall  live,  M.  Burden — and  I  want 
you  not  to  be  unhappy.  I  have  learned 
what  love  is — the  American  love." 

"Ah?" 

"  Every  day  you  have  come,  sometimes 
twice  and  three  times.  I  could  faintly  feel 
if  not  hear  your  ring  at  the  gate.  I  knew 
it  was  you.  You  sent  me  '  your  best 
wishes,' — •'  best  wishes  ' — ah,  yes — now  I 
know — that  is  the  American  '  love.'" 

She  paused  a  moment  to  take  breath. 

"  And  it  means  so  much.  It  is  not  a 
quick  passion  which  comes,  devours  and 
goes.  Ah  no,  M.  Burden — it  is  '  best  wishes  ' 
every  day,  all  the  whole  life.  .  .  .  It  is 


172  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

very  sweet,  that  love.  But  as  I  lie  here  and 
think,  and  think — it  has  come  to  me  at 
last.  ...  I  shall  live,  M.  Burden — be 
lieve  me,  the  'best  wishes' — they  will  not 
go  if  I  live  !  " 

"  Ah,  my  darling  !  my  love  !  "  I  cried, 
falling  on  my  knees.  Her  hand  rested  a 
moment  on  my  head  and  caressed  it. 

"  It  is  very  sweet,"  she  murmured,  "It  is 
the  love  of  a  high  sort  ;  it  is  unselfish, — 
the  '  best  wishes,' — I  understand  now.  Yes, 
it  is  in  some  of  those  American  novels,  too. 
It  is  implied.  There  is  no  passion, — ah,  it 
is  a  condition.  One  lives  in  it,  one  does 
things  for  the  other  without  thought.  Ah, 
how  glad  I  am  ! — I  am  still  Americana  !  " 

"  You  have  come  to  love  me — "  I  mused, 
her  hand  in  mine. 

"  Yes—" 

"  My  sweet  American  girl." 

"  Yes — vraiment — yours!  " 

"  You — a  Venetian  !  " 

"  It  contents  me  as  I  lie  here.  It  is  the 
love  of  the  soul,  pure,  beautiful.  I  ask  no 
other — wish  no  other.  I  love  only  my  love 
— who  is  so  unselfish — so  self-denying." 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  173 


"And  your  plans  for  Venice?" 

She  only  smiled. 

That  was  two  months  ago.  Since  then, 
what  happiness  !  Isabel  grows  better  in 
the  quiet  joy  of  our  betrothal.  The  Prince 
has  not  forbidden  it.  The  Count,  her 
father,  pats  me  on  the  back, — his  "  son-in- 
lav/,  beloved." 

The  Countess  Folsogni  alone  still  pre 
serves  the  same  dark,  dreadful  meaning  in 
her  face.  I  am  curiously  prevented  from 
having  a  word  with  her  alone.  With  Isa 
bel  I  may  sit  and  chat  an  entire  morning. 


To-day  the  world  of  Rome  never  looked 
so  gay  to  me.  It  is  warm  and  sunny,  and 
one  hears  music  at  every  open  window. 
Isabel  has  recovered  so  that  she  can  take 
little  walks  with  me  in  the  pleasant  giar- 
dino  of  the  palace.  She  is  pale  still,  and 
cannot  walk  far  or  long  at  a  time.  But 
how  happy  she  is  !  She  continually  makes 
little  studies  of  the  way  I  make  love,  in 
what  she  terms  "  the  fashion  American." 

The  palace  gardens   are  filled   with  the 


174  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 


usual  marble  Psyches  and  Cupids,  and  the 
usual  potted  shrubs  and  plants  of  all  Roman 
gardens.  There  are  several  beautiful  olive 
trees.  Under  these  we  sit.  A  high  wall 
surrounds  the  pretty  acre,  above  is  the  blue 
Italian  sky,  the  deep  green  of  the  olive 
and  ilex  leaves. 

The  palace,  built  in  the  later  Renais 
sance,  has  none  of  the  awful  mediaevalism 
of  the  Regiani  at  Venice.  There  is  a  com 
fortable  feeling  of  security,  of  the  nine 
teenth  century,  in  its  broad  porch  and  door 
ways.  Across  the  Tiber,  in  Transtevere, 
we  can  see  a  dozen  new  buildings  of  white 
brick  rising.  Isabel  often  remarks  them. 
"  Ah,  so  American  !  "  she  intimates,  with  a 
delicious  roguery. 

She  delights  in  improvements,  in  new 
buildings,  in  progress  ! — -"  So  American  !  " 

We  are  happy — we  are  easily  pleased. 
We  read  only  American  novels.  Isabel 
longs  to  visit  "Ni  Gark,"  "  Bostone."  She 
will  make  in  my  country  an  anomaly — a 
patriotic  American  woman  !  I  can  recall 
none  who  admire,  especially,  republicanism. 
But  what  American  woman  of  fashion  does 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  175 


not  know  all  royal  personages  by  name? 
She  will  teach  us  to  be  good  Americans,  per 
haps — to  worship  that  for  which  our  ances 
tors  gave  so  much.  It  seems  so  much  to 
her. 

I  learned  that  during  the  early  days  of 
her  illness,  Isabel,  in  her  fever,  kept  crying 
my  name  and  calling  for  me.  The  doctor 
at  last  urgently  advised  my  being  sum 
moned.  All  my  visits  seem  to  be  casually 
watched  by  the  pale-faced  Dr.  Travazzi, 
her  physician.  Sometimes  as  he  rubs  his 
hands  and  smiles,  I  imagine  that  he  regards 
me  in  the  light  of  a  trained  nurse — or  per 
haps  a  soothing  medicine — I  have  done  his 
patient  some  service  ! 

It  is  odd  that  I  have  never  yet  set  eyes 
on  the  Prince.  He  remains  shrouded  in  the 
palace.  He  is  never  on  view.  I  learn  that 
he  is  not  in  the  Church  exactly,  but  close 
to  it.  He  is  too  much  a  man  of  the  world. 


May  3</. 

ET  me  barely  set  down  the  facts  as 
they  occurred  to-day.  I  cannot 
understand — I  am  in  a  state  of 
wild  doubt  and  despair.  We 
walked,  Isabel  and  I,  in  the 
sunny  garden,  as  usual. 

She  aPPeared  stronger, 
almost  well.  She  was 
like  her  old  self,  buoy 
ant,  full  of  laughter, — free.  The  morning 
was  made  memorable  by  our  setting  the 
day  of  our  wedding  a  month  later. 

Isabel  said,  looking  away  at  the  distant 
view  of  the  hills  beyond  Transtevere,  "  I 
am  willing  soon.  My  father  he  wishes — 
soon." 

I  took  her  in  my  arms.  "You  speak  of 
your  father?"  I  asked. 

"  I  think  of  him.  All  his  troubles — his 
debts — 

I  expressed  polite  interest. 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  177 

"  Paul,  you  will  pay  them  !  It  is  nothing 
to  you — perhaps  a  million  francs." 

"A  million  francs  ?" 

"  Bagatelle  !  " 

"But—" 

"  You  are  rich.     All  Americans  are  rich." 

"  My  darling,  I  am  not  rich." 

"Not  rich!  Dio!"  She  looked  at  me 
with  an  expression  of  wild  astonishment. 
"Mais,  all  Americans  are  enormously 
rich  ?" 

"  Frankly,  I  am  not  so.  There  is  a  little 
money — not  much." 

"Is  it  the  truth,  Paul?"  She  gazed  for 
a  moment  deeply  into  my  eyes. 

"Absolutely." 

Isabel  rose,  and  stood  a  moment  beneath 
the  shade  of  a  palm  leaf,  trembling.  The 
marble  statue  of  a  laughing  faun  near  by 
seemed  to  point  mockingly  at  her,  to  jeer 
at  her. 

"  It  disappoints  you  to  find  one  American 
who  is  not  wealthy?  "  I  asked  coldly. 

"  My  father's  debts  !  My  family  !  "  she 
ejaculated,  bursting  into  tears.  I  have 
never  seen  her  weep  before. 


178  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

"  You  could  not  expect  me  to  pay  your 
father's  debts  ?  " 

"  I  did  !  I  did  !  "  she  sobbed. 

"  It  is  not  the  American  custom,"  I 
said,  after  a  little  pause,  surprised  in  my 
turn. 

Her  whole  body  shook  with  emotion  ;  her 
face  turned  away  from  me.  At  the  moment 
I  could  not  realize  the  tragedy  in  her  heart. 
I  only  felt  like  a  lover.  I  only  wanted  her. 
I  doubted  not  that  she  cared  for  me  more 
than  family.  The  old  Count  must  get 
along  as  best  he  could  !  I  could  only 
pity  her  disappointment,  and  regret  that  I 
had  not  fortune  sufficient  to  pay  the  Count's 
debts  a  thousand  times  over.  But — pshaw  ! 
why  should  she  care  so  much  ?  She  loved 
me  !  She  loved  America,  which  would  be 
her  home  ! 

Finally,  as  I  did  not  rise  and  go  to  her, 
the  words  came  in  French,  "  Do  not  think 
me  mercenary." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  am  unable  to 
do  more  than  support  you,  Isabel,  in  all 
the  comfort  you  have  been  accustomed  to. 
I  have  a  comfortable  home  in  the  States.  I 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  179 

have  enough.  You  shall  never  ask  twice 
for  a  bonnet." 

She  looked  at  me,  and  smiled  through 
her  tears. 

How  dear  and  sweet  she  looked  in  the 
garden  of  roses  !  Like  a  rose  herself,  petal 
by  petal  opening  until  I  saw  the  love  writ 
ten  in  her  heart,  for  me  !  My  thirty-odd 
years  rolled  away  in  the  rapturous  perfume — 
and  I  was  twenty -one  !  We  had  been  read 
ing  a  volume  of  Ruskin.  I  let  the  volume 
fall  on  the  ground.  It  grew  toward  white 
noon.  There  was  a  silent  rapture  of  love 
between  us.  Suddenly  we  heard  a  voice — 
the  deep  basso  of  her  father.  It  called  to 
her. 

"Isabella!  " 

I  remembered  instantly  that  same  voice 
the  first  day  I  saw  her  in  the  Campanile. 
She  ceased  her  tears.  Tossing  me  a  kiss, 
she  lightly  fled  away  from  me  to  him,  laugh 
ing  gayly  ;  I  even  heard  her  singing  as  she 
walked  toward  the  palace.  I  saw  her  sunny 
head  across  the  garden,  amid  the  branches 
of  the  ilex  trees.  She  entered  the  palace. 

.    .    .    The  iron  gate  clashed  shut.    .    . 


180  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

I  think  I  waited  half  an  hour  without  feel 
ing  disturbed.  Then  I  approached  the  pal 
ace,  and  made  inquiry  of  one  of  the  liveried 
servants  of  the  Countess  Isabel.  Word  was 
brought  me  that  she  prayed  to  be  excused. 

Not  doubting,  even  then,  I  went  away  to 
my  hotel,  thinking  that  my  Venetian  rose 
was  detained  by  some  trivial  matter.  To 
morrow  she  would  be  twice  as  sweet  to  me 
for  this  absence. 

The  morrow  came.  I  called.  They  told 
me  Isabel  had  suddenly  left  Rome.  Why  ? 
This  they  did  not  tell  me. 

The  horror  that  came  over  me  left  my 
mind  a  blank.  ...  I  cannot  write  of  it 
now.  No  word,  no  explanation.  She  had 
gone.  The  servants  knew  nothing  ;  their 
lips  were  sealed.  Every  one  of  the  family 
had  left  Rome.  I  feared  the  worst.  Doc 
tor  Travazzi  is  apparently  as  nonplussed  as 
I  am. 

I  remember  I  drove  to  the  prefecture  of 
police.  I  was  merely  laughed  at  for  an  in 
sane  American. 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  officer,  "  you 
are  angry  that  you  cannot  marry  the  cele- 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  181 


brated  daughter  of  ze  Count  Folsogni — 
many  others  also  are  angry.  Che  vuole  ? 
Ze  Count  her  fader  takes  her  avay — zat  is 
right.  Zere's  too  many  adventurers,  my 
sir." 

No  one  who  has  not  travelled  in  Italy 
can  ever  know  the  absolute  helplessness 
which  paralyzes  a  foreigner  under  such  cir 
cumstances.  I  employed  detectives  who 
did  not  detect.  I  flew  to  Venice  in  search 
of  her,  to  Florence,  to  Padua — in  vain  ! 
Isabel  was  lost  forever  !  .  .  . 

I  recall  that  in  those  days  of  feverish 
despair  I  met  Ferati  in  Venice.  "  You  will 
assist  me  in  my  search  for  Isabel  ?  "  I  asked. 

He  only  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  You  will  help  to  avenge  this  crime  ?" 

"  I  can  do  nothing." 

"  Nothing  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  family  matter,  my  sir  ;  she  con 
sents.  Such  affairs  are  not  so  uncommon 
among  the  nobili  ;  it  is  the  old  regime." 

He  turned  away  with  another  shrug. 


NEW  YORK,  June  21. 
A  year  later. 

OD  grant  that  my 
nephew  may  es 
cape  in  his  life 
such  a  sad  expe 
rience  as  mine  ! 

I  write  these 
words  in  my  di 
ary  for  the  last 
time.  I  intend  to  seal  it  up,  and  long  after 
I  am  dead  let  it  be  opened  and  read  by  Al 
fred,  my  nephew,  or,  if  he  desires,  destroyed. 
Bitterness  worse  than  living  death  !  My 
heart  dead  and  buried  !  The  delight  of 
those  few  short  sunny  days  in  Rome  in 
the  gardens  of  the  old  palace  with  Isa 
bel  !  Her  sweetness  ineffable,  her  return 
ing  health,  the  daily  interviews  in  the  gar 
den.  Oh,  the  part  those  wretches  played  ! 
God  curse  them  to  the  deepest  pits  of 
hell! 


A  Daughter  of  Venice,  183 

Looking  back  over  what  I  have  written 
I  have  thought  best  to  destroy  the  records 
of  many  days.  I  have  left  but  a  slight, 
brief  sketch  of  Isabel — enough,  enough  ! 
Dante  says,  "  Life  is  but  the  flash  of  the 
wave,  the  sound  that  echoes  and  is  gone. 
I  ,ove  is  but  a  part  of  life —  Let  my  rec 

ord  of  her  be  brief,  unfinished,  imperfect  ; 
such  has  been  her  life — imperfect,  unfin 
ished.  .  .  . 

I  never  saw  Isabel  again.  I  travelled 
into  distant  countries — India,  China,  Japan. 
At  Yokohama  they  forwarded  to  me  a  little 
packet  with  a  Venetian  postmark.  I  waited 
a  day  without  opening  it.  I  remember  that 
I  sat  brooding  in  my  small  Japanese  cham 
ber  while  the  packet  lay  on  the  little  bam 
boo  table,  and  Fusiyama,  the  holy  mountain, 
reared  its  slender  white  crater  against  the 
deep  blue  of  the  sky,  before  my  open  win 
dow. 

"  If  she  writes  me  to  come — shall  I  go  ? 
If  she  has  married — shall  I  care?  If  she 
is  dead — shall  I  live?"  These  questions  I 
asked  throughout  the  short  summer  night, 
and  left  at  the  gray  dawn  unanswered. 


184  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

The  unopened  packet  I  dreaded  to  unseal. 
The  very  wax  smelled  of  dead  Venice — of 
the  Regianis.  I  went  out,  hired  a  jinrick 
sha,  and  rode  for  miles  along  the  country 
roads  of  the  eastern  paradise,  and  then 
returned.  The  outward  aspect  of  the  world 
was  so  beautiful,  yet  so  simple,  so  poetic, 
that  I  brought  back  a  fearless  resolution. 
The  Japanese  were  of  an  old  civilization 
— older  than  the  Venetian.  But  in  their 
civilization  there  was  nothing  of  mystery, 
of  dread,  of  death.  I  felt  inspired  by  their 
charming  light-mindedness,  and  opened  the 
packet  resolutely. 

First  there  was  a  letter  in  French  from 
my  old  friend  the  Countess  Cologni,  as 
follows  : 

"  MY  DEAR  M.  BURDEN  :  The  enclosed, 
under  seal,  my  Isabel  left  for  you.  I  am 
ignorant  of  its  contents.  Pardon  her,  my 
sir  !  In  what  she  did  she  was  but  a  daugh 
ter  of  Venice.  I  am  convinced  that  she 
loved  you.  You  were  not  daring,  M.  Bur 
den  !  You  had  no  determination  !  [ffer 
words  the  first  night  I  met  her  at  the  Casa 
Bonifacio  !]  It  appears  that  the  very  night 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  185 

of  her  disappearance  she  escaped  from 
their  surveillance  at  the  palazzo  and  went 
to  you.  You  were  not  at  your  hotel.  She 
walked  an  hour,  at  night,  subjecting  her 
self  to  all  manner  of  insult.  She  made  an 
effort  to  find  you  at  first.  In  vain  !  Then, 
by  an  accident,  she  met  you  returning  and 
hid  within  a  doorway.  Think  of  that  !  It 
was  within  her  power  to  touch  you,  to  call 
you.  But,  Monsieur,  the  claims  of  her 
family  in  Venice  when  she  was  free  to  choose, 
triumphed  !  It  was  then  that  she  made  up 
her  mind  to  submit — while  your  fiacre, 
detained  by  the  crowds  in  the  Corso,  stood 
for  a  moment  within  her  reach.  Pardon 
her,  M.  Burden  !  Think  of  her  sacrifice  ! 
She  let  you  go  by — go  past  !  She  returned 
to  the  Prince  !  the  bargain  was 

carried     out.       .     .     .       the    money    paid, 
her  father  saved.       .     .     .      the 

family  reestablished " 

I  read  no  further.  My  servant  brought 
in  a  brazier  on  which  a  pot  of  tea  was  heat 
ing.  I  fanned  the  live  coals  a  moment  into 
flame,  and  gently  placed  Isabel's  unbroken 
packet  on  the  embers. 


1 86  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

I  said  aloud  to  my  servant,  "  Go  tell  the 
merchant  that  I  will  purchase  that  little 
urn  of  old  bronze  I  saw  yesterday."  He 
departed  and  returned  presently  with  the 
merchant  himself  bearing  the  costly  urn. 
I  paid  his  price.  The  ashes  of  Isabel's  last 
confession,  if  such  it  was  (as  the  packet 
burned  I  caught  but  one  word  "passio- 
nata  "),  repose  in  the  heart  of  the  deli 
cately  beautiful  bronze. 

In  it,  I  conceive  that  I  have  buried  her 
heart  ;  I  know  that  it  was  and  is  mine,  but 
its  confession  of  love,  and  desperate  self- 
sacrifice,  does  not  weaken  its  hold  upon  me, 
any  more  than  it  gives  me  the  right  to  pry 
into  its  secret  despair,  and  lay  bare  its  con 
tents.  She  was  a  woman  of  another  age  ; 
I  do  not  seek  to  judge  her  ;  she  has  restored 
her  race  ;  my  love  compared  with  this  hero 
ism  seems  but  a  puny  affair. 

What  is  "  this  thing  love "  but  selfish 
ness  ?  Isabel  has  refounded  her  family. 
It  will  be  rich  and  proud  and  great  as  long 
as  Venice  remains  above  the  wave.  I  am 
appalled  at  the  magnificence  of  her  spirit, 
at  the  grandeur  of  her  audacity.  She  was 


A  Daughter  of   Venice.  187 

a  true  daughter  of  Venice — a  true  descend 
ant  of  the  doges  !  They  told  her  that  she, 
a  woman,  could  do  nothing — they  laughed 
her  young  ambition  to  scorn  ;  but  she  has 
chosen  to  restore  her  race — to  do  every 
thing  !  .  .  . 

The  great  Palazzo  Regiani,  on  the  Grand 
Canal,  the  Countess  Cologni  wrote,  in  a 
later  letter,  has  been  entirely  restored  and 
refitted.  The  young  Count  Manuelo  Fol- 
sogni  was  a  good,  pious,  serious  young 
man.  The  family  was  now  well  established. 
The  very  name  of  Isabel,  whose 
beauty  had  restored  the  old  ducal  race,  is 
almost  forgotten  in  Venice.  Amen.  Some 
day  I  will  visit  again,  if  I  live,  that  grave 
of  Isabel's  ambitions. 

I  often  think  how  strange  it  was  that  the 
most  vital  creature  (vital  in  Wordsworth's 
beautiful  sense)  I  ever  knew  should  have 
been  born  in  the  very  heart  of  the  dead 
city.  .  .  .  I  will  love  to  see  my  Venice 
again.  It  will  be  in  early  May  ;  and  the 
moon  will  float  above  the  Dogana,  as  one 
observes  from  the  Giardino  Reale.  I  will 


1 88  A  Daughter  of  Venice. 

again  be  charmed  and  filled  with  the 
strange,  sad  beauty  of  that  wonderful  city. 
I  will  see  it,  too,  under  the  moonlight,  with 
the  eyes  of  a  Dandolo,  and  with  the  aveng 
ing  heart  of  a  Sforza.  I  long  to  have  a 
life  for  a  life  !  .  .  .  Yet  these  vengeful 
thoughts,  little  by  little,  are  fading.  I  feel 
the  years — the  years. 

There,  rising  in  the  dim  moonlight  above 
the  Grand  Canal,  I  often  picture  the  old 
stately,  mediaeval  palace  of  the  Regianis. 
They  may  have  restored  it,  and  disfigured 
it,  as  they  have  the  old  Fondaca  dei  Turchi, 
but  they  can  never  change  that  melancholy, 
mysterious  aspect  of  the  past  which  per 
vades  it.  The  old  mediaeval  house  has  its 
terrible  secrets — was  built  on  crime— is 
stained  with  blood  ;  but  there  is  no  greater 
infamy  chargeable  to  it  than,  in  this  close 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  the  effacement 
of  the  beautiful  young  Countess  Isabel. 
She  lives,  but  she  lives  in  an  oblivion  as 
deep  as  the  waters  of  Lethe. 

I  was  fortunate  enough  to  purchase  of  M. 
Aretier,  in  Paris,  her  portrait,  in  choppines. 
The  Countess  Isabel,  as  I  knew  her,  in  her 


A  Daughter  of  Venice.  189 


radiant  and  patrician  beauty,  looks  down 
with  a  gay,  charming  smile  upon  me  as  I 
write — an  impersonation  of  the  most  en 
thusiastic  youth,  a  veritable  daughter  of 
the  Venice  of  the  middle  age. 

FIXE. 


GRAMERCY  PARK.    By  John  Sey 
mour  Wood.    (D.  Appleton  &  Co.) 

"  As  to  Gramercy  Park. .  .it  is  a  serious  piece  of  fic 
tion  deserving  recognition.  .It  is  told  without  strain 
ing  for  sensational  effect,  without  carping,  or  blame 
or  prudery  or  lamentation  ;  but  it  is  told,  unflinch 
ingly  nevertheless,  with  a  sense  of  the  essence  of 
truth  and  good  invention  even  in  this  struggling, 
ironical  fin  dn  siecle  life  of  ours." — The  Critic. 

''  Mr.  Wood's  story  is  that  of  a  modern  pair  to  one 
of  whom  come  fickleness  and  disillusion,  which  end 
in  separation — the  last  page  leaves  open  the  question 
as  to  whether  it  is  to  be  final.  The  style  is  vigorous 
and  easy,  and  the  mood  of  the  author  is  that  of  a  keen, 
careful,  and  rather  pessimistic  artist." — N.  Y.  Trib 
une. 

"  The  opening  chapters  are  a  charming  love  story, 
which  evolves  through  matrimony  into  a  novel  with  a 
purpose — the  burden  of  it  being  that  the  present 
social  system  which  sends  the  wife  to  the  country, 
and  leaves  the  husband  in  town,  is  responsible  for 
much  discord  and  unhappiness." — Life. 

"  The  story  is  well  told,  and  points  out  clearly  the 
increase  of  a  terrible  social  evil,  the  decline  of  home 
life,  and  one  of  the  many  reasons  for  both." — Com 
mercial  Advertiser. 

"  '  Gramercy  Park.'  by  John  Seymour  Wood,  the 
author  of  '  Harry's  Career  at  Yale,'  now  running  in 
Outing,  fulfills  its  claim  as  a  story  of  New  York  life. 
The  absence  of  over-saintly  and  vicious  characters  is, 
indeed,  refreshing,  while  a  satire  upon  the  present 
state  of  society  adds  force  to  the  story." — Outing,  for 
October. 


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